Monty Python's 'The Hobbit'
by Morthoron
Summary: A perfectly punctuated Python parody of JRR Tolkien's beloved The Hobbit. Join Bilbo Baggins' quest to free Erebor from Smaug the dragon before a lethal strain of comedy kills him. 3RD PLACE, 2009 MEFA AWARDS, with the top two spots left purposely blank.
1. Chapter 1

DISCLAIMER: This is a not-for-profit story, and is in no way meant for publication; therefore, both the Tolkien Estate and the members of Monty Python can rest assured, there will be no royalties due and nothing forthcoming in the way of monetary remuneration for the meager author of this farcical romp through Middle-earth.

**PROLOGUE**

In a hole in a hill lived a Halfling. Not a slimy, phosphorescent hole full of fertilizer run-off from a local golf course or corporate farm, nor a dank, musty catacomb with decaying corpses strewn about in Byzantine stratification. This was a Hobbit hole, and…well…ummm…my, that's not nearly as endearing as the original, is it? I mean, really, how does one improve on a classic? One can't, can one?

The narrator nervously drummed his fingers on the top of a worn oaken desk, an intriguing art-deco affair with shelf space and a shallow cupboard around the front for books and papers and whatever could not be crammed into the overstuffed drawers on the business end of the substantive piece of decrepit office furniture. The word-wraith, a literary grave ghoul rummaging about in the subcreative vault of someone else's imagination, absentmindedly took a drag off his cigarette, stared blankly at the jumble of words he had just typed, and shrugged with the casual air of a man who had given up before he even started. But having utterly failed in an endeavor he had barely begun, the narrator kept typing anyway; after all, he typed beautifully, and had a great grasp of grammar and polysyllabification.

Now, where were we? Ah yes, Hobbits, or, rather, a particular Hobbit -- and Python, a Monty Python. In the next several hundred pages of beautifully typed and grammatically superb exposition, I will attempt to merge Tolkienesque and Pythonesque material into an 'esque' of monumentally satiric proportions: a statuesque burlesque, as it were. Not being averse to lifting wholesale the life's work of famous folk for the sake of indulgently affixing my stamp on their stories (and using the term 'fan-fiction' as a crucifix to ward off vampiric attorneys), I thought I'd give it a go.

Oh, and I almost forgot, I shan't be plundering old Python bits and just rabbiting off Monty skits wholesale, plopping them indecorously into Tolkien's plot (Bilbo: 'This parrot's dead.' Gandalf: 'No, it's just pinin' for the fjord.') -- no, nay, never! Rather, I shall attempt a bold-faced mimicry of the brazen British troop's comedic stylings as they rewrite the quintessential fantasy story (allegorical only on a subsumed basis) which contains elements of pre-existing mythology and a faint veneer of Catholicity (okay, that's more _Lord of the Rings_ than _The Hobbit_, but it plays well to the masses).

Other than that, there should be nothing derivative whatsoever. Wink, wink, nudge, nudge.

**CHAPTER 1: Gandalf Arrives**

One morning long ago in the quiet of the world, when there was less noise and more green, the inestimable wizard Gandalf found himself once again at the brightly painted, round door of the hobbit-hole at Bag-end. Smiling, he rapped lightly at the door with his great staff. At first, there was no answer, and so he rapped once more. There was much rummaging about inside, and then the flap, flap, flap of bare feet on stone floor. Eventually, a voice came reluctantly from behind the door. "'Ooo is it?" was all it said.

"It is I, Gandalf," the wizard cheerfully answered.

"Ooo?" the voice replied in turn.

Gandalf cleared his throat and said again, "Gandalf, it is Gandalf."

"Go 'way, there's nobody 'ome," the voice said rather unconvincingly.

"Nonsense, I can hear you as plain as day!" Gandalf growled in growing irritation, but there followed naught but a brooding silence. Not to be so easily defeated, the gray wizard began knocking more persistently, and shouted, "Open up this instant!" But the voice from behind the door became vexed and shrieked, "We don't want any!"

"I'm not here to give anyone anything, dash it all!" Gandalf bellowed. "Open up, I wish to speak with Bilbo Baggins!"

The silence that followed was punctuated occasionally by mutterings and whispers. Finally, the voice from behind the door retorted, "'Ees away on Holiday. Coom back next spring."

Gandalf heaved an exasperated sigh. "This is preposterous! Open up, I say! Open up or I shall turn you into something unpleasant!"

There was more muttering and whispers, but Gandalf's threat had its desired effect. The door opened to reveal an old hobbit-hag.

"Good morning…old hobbit-hag," Gandalf said hesitantly.

"Good mornin'? And what's good about it, I should like to know?" The old hobbit-hag grumbled. "What with strange old geezers with big, nasty sticks lurkin' about, threatenin' poor innocent folk. I told my 'usband the Shire was goin' to 'ell in a 'andbasket, but did 'ee listen...no!"

Gandalf was growing increasingly perturbed by the whole affair, but he managed to maintain an air of forced politeness. "By 'good morning' I merely meant to offer you a suitable greeting. I could just as well have said 'hello'."

The old hag spat and scowled. "Better to 'ave said goodbye and be done with it. Goodbye!"

Gandalf forcibly kept the door ajar with his staff as it was swinging shut, and growled, "Now wait just a moment! Where is Bilbo Baggins? I demand to see him!"

The old hobbit-hag looked the wizard up and down indignantly. "You...demand? Well aint that just like a filthy beggar, puttin' on airs! All high and mighty, and not a farthing to clean up those dirty gray rags! We'll just see about this...OTHO! O-T-H-O!"

There were mumbled curses further down the hobbit hole, and then more flap, flap, flap of bare feet on stone. A distinguished Hobbit suddenly appeared at the door. He was wearing a green velvet smoking jacket and had a red fez angled jauntily on his round head. Clearly agitated, he puffed on his clay meerschaum with the force of a locomotive engine. "See here, Lobelia, what's all this caterwauling about?" the gentle-hobbit barked. "You've interrupted my tea."

"I'll interrupt more than your tea, you great lummox," the hobbit hag (named Lobelia, of course, and evidently the hobbit's wife) barked right back. "This smelly old bugger won't leave. Says 'ee's 'ere to see Bilbo Baggins. Demandin' to do so, 'ee is!"

The distinguished hobbit (one Otho Sackville-Baggins by name) looked the wizard up and down in the same manner his wife had earlier, and huffed as he puffed, "Preposterous! Look here, my good man, what are you on about? It seems you've gone and confusticated and bebothered my good wife. The last time she was in such a state, she ended up burnin' the scones."

Lobelia upper lip began to quaver and she cried, "Scones, scones, scones! If it aint the tea, it's the scones. I get no appreciation 'round 'ere." Here sobbing became more pronounced and she loudly blew her nose on the hem of her dress.

Otho, realizing he had crossed some husbandly boundary and stricken his wife to the bottom of her hairy toes, became more gentle and crooned, "There, there, my dear, the last batch of scones was absolutely lovely. They were a triumph."

"You...you think so?" Lobelia whimpered.

"A delight, my dear," Otho replied with a loving pat, "every bit as good as Beladonna Took's."

Gandalf had been watching the affectionate interplay between Otho and Lobelia with a mix of disinterest and disgust. "Excuse me..." he interrupted.

Otho's head snapped upward and he glared at Gandalf. "What, are you still here? Be off with you, rapscallion, or I shall be forced to call the Shiriffs! There are laws against loitering I'll have you know."

Gandalf bit his lip to stifle a curse. Regaining his composure, he said in a measured tone, "Would you be so kind as to tell Bilbo Baggins that Gandalf is here. I was here only yesterday and spoke with him..."

But Lobelia cut him off with a cry: "Ah, so it was you! Look, Otho, 'ees the one as scratched up the door with those queer markings. Must've used that nasty stick."

Otho pulled the pipe from between his teeth and pointed the butt-end at the wizard. "There are laws against defacing private property, I'll have you know! You, sir, are a vagrant and a vandal!"

Lobelia joined in and scornfully hissed, "Be off with you! Be off a' fore we sic the Bounders on ye!" So saying, she hit Gandalf squarely in the nose with her bumbershoot.

And so Gandalf, abashed by such a brazen attack on his Maiaric personage -- albeit disguised in a corporeal manifestation to give him a less ethereal appearance -- staggered in uncertainty away from the quaint hobbit-hole and down the slate path that led from Bag-end. Little did he realize that the conniving Sackville-Bagginses had been granted power-of-attorney by the high court in Michel Delving, and had poor Bilbo committed for reasons of rowing boats, being seen in the company of frolicking elves, feeding dwarves out of season, and generally behaving in a manner inconsistent with accustomed upper class Hobbitish practices.


	2. Chapter 2

_CAUTION: Some mild profanity and innuendo ensues, but nothing that cannot be heard on prime time TV._

**CHAPTER 2: Of the Coming of the Dwarves to the Shire**

And so it was that the doughty Dwarves came marching through the Shire from their mines and coal pits in the Blue Mountains far to the west. And while they marched, they sang a marching song, aptly entitled '_The March of the Naugrim of Ered Luin'_, sang in D minor. Well, actually, it was originally written in the key of C, but D minor is a more melancholy note, and more appropriate for the basso and baritone voices of the Dwarves; unfortunately, marches of this sort require the diatonic scale and a major chord for the horns and such...

Thorin, the leader of the Dwarves, glared indignantly at the wayward narrator, and got his attention with a loud and indignant "AHEM!"

Abashedly, the narrator mumbled his apologies, intending to present, without further ado, '_The March of the Naugrim of Ered Luin'_, which was patterned on the works of John Phillip Sousa. Mr. Sousa was an American composer, which is perhaps unfortunate from the standpoint of the heavily Anglo-Saxon and Icelandic flavor of the story; but who, nevertheless, derived much of his material from English influences....

The whole troop of Dwarves had been listening listlessly to the narrator's exacerbating drivel, and in unison shouted, "GET ON WITH IT!"

The narrator frowned, but acquiesced. "Yes, certainly...bugger."

_BA-BA-BA-BUM-BUM-BUM, BA-BA-BA-BUM-BUM-BUM, BA-BA-BA-BUM-BUM-BUM... _

_We are the dwarves -- of Thorin's band,  
Our greedy thoughts now often linger  
On the gleam of our gold -- in a far-away land,  
That slipped right through our stubby fingers.  
But it weren't our fault -- no, not the least,  
With Smaug in our vaults -- such a fiery beast.  
We swallowed our pride and started to run,  
As he burnt all our kin to kingdom come (repeated by Balin the dwarf in baritone: 'burnt all our kin to kingdom come')._

_BA-BA-BA-BUM-BUM-BUM, BA-BA-BA-BUM-BUM-BUM, BA-BA-BA-BUM-BUM-BUM..._

_We are the dwarves -- off to Erebor,  
We are fierce and full of chutzpah!  
We are the dwarves -- we're three times four (Dumplin: plus me!),  
And our names come from the Völuspá.  
We shall not cease --nor raise a flagon,  
'Till we're either deceased -- or kill the dragon,  
Then count up the swag when the job is done,  
And get so sloshed that our beards go numb (repeated by Bombur the dwarf in basso: ' get so sloshed that our beards go numb')._

_BA-BA-BA-BUM-BUM-BUM, BA-BA-BA-BUM-BUM-BUM, BA-BA-BA-BUM-BUM-BUM..._

_We are the dwarves -- all revenge and desire,  
We may be short but we're not lagging.  
We are the dwarves -- and we're in the Shire,  
To find a burglar the name of Baggins.  
And by Gandalf's request -- we'll take him for hire,  
To join in our quest -- If the blighter desires.  
He'll get his share when the deed is done,  
Under contract for a percentage sum (repeated by Dumplin the dwarf in falsetto: 'dear little Bilbo with the nice tight bum')._

The befuddled Dwarves stopped singing for a moment and looked sheepishly at each other, and then with annoyance at Dumplin, but quickly regained their composure long enough to finish their tune:

_BUM-BUM-BUM, BA-BA-BA-BUM-BUM-BUM..._

_Under contract for a percentage sum..._

_BUM-BUM-BUM, BA-BA-BA-BUM-BUM-BUM..._

_Under contract for a percentage s-u-u-u-u-u-m-m-m-m!_

The narrator was quite pleased with the Dwarves stirring rendition of his song, but then a thought occurred to him that left him rankled. What if, perhaps, the mention of the Völuspá -- an Icelandic Poetic Edda composed by Snorri Sturluson, circa 1220 A.D. -- was too esoteric a reference for the reading audience?

Thorin rolled his eyes at the continued interruptions in the narrative. "Not at all," he replied gruffly, "in fact, I'm sure no one is even paying attention to the lyrics. It is the flashy special effects and the buckets of blood and gore they'll be looking for."

ooOOooOOoo

Meanwhile, the mighty wizard Gandalf had conjured up a holy writ of Habeas Corpus – not to mention a terrifying thunderbolt that disintegrated the stubborn judge's gavel – thus managing to secure Bilbo Baggins' release from unlawful detention. The Sackville-Bagginses were, of course, sacked, and the relieved Bilbo once again found himself safe and secure in the cozy environs of his quaint hobbit hole. Setting a kettle on the hob, Bilbo sat back in his chair and gingerly nibbled a biscuit. Suddenly, there was a rapping at his door.

"Now who can that be?" Bilbo grunted in annoyance. "Ah yes, it's Wednesday, and Gandalf said he'd be by."

Scuttling off to the door, Bilbo excitedly proclaimed "Greetings Gandalf, how are...wait a moment, who the 'ell are you?"

To Bilbo's surprise, it was not Gandalf the Gray at his door; rather, it was a strange Dwarf with a bright green cape (not chartreuse, per se, but not again forest green) "Dwalin at your service," the dwarf said as he bowed grandly.

There was an uncomfortable silence for a few moments as neither the Hobbit nor the Dwarf stirred. Finally, the now nervous Dwarf said, "I am here for a meeting."

This time, the uncomfortable silence was much prolonged. Bilbo remained unmoved, but did cock an eyebrow at the odd Dwarf.

Now Dwalin was fidgeting and at a loss for words. Finally, he managed to blurt out, "Errr...I am here at Gandalf's request."

Bilbo's demeanor instantly changed, and he managed a small smile. "Right...in you go then. I'm about to take tea and have some cakes, would you care to join me?"

Dwalin smiled broadly and said with some relief, "I thought you would never ask. I am starving!" Without further ado, the dwarf hurriedly hung up his cape on a peg by the door and bowled Bilbo over in the rush to reach the cakes.

Picking himself off the ground, Bilbo straightened his vest and was about to join the dashing Dwarf, when yet another knock on the door caught his attention. "Excuse me, Dwalin; I'll be right with you!" Bilbo called down the hall. He then opened the door and said, "Gandalf, I really..."

But yet again, it was not Gandalf at the door; instead, a white-haired dwarf in a scarlet hood bowed. "Greetings!" the old Dwarf chimed cheerfully, "Balin at your service! Ah, I can see by the green hood that they have begun to arrive! Is that seed-cake I smell? Don't worry, I'll help meself. I hope you have some beer in your cellar."

Without another word, or any reply from Bilbo, Balin put his hood on a peg next to Dwalin's and stormed off down the hallway. Dumfounded, Bilbo merely stood by the door and watched the Dwarf leave. All that Bilbo could manage was a pitiful whisper: "They? Begun to arrive?"

Again, Bilbo's attention was drawn back to the door, when further knocking ensued. Now Bilbo was becoming very agitated. "This damn well better be Gandalf!" He grumbled. However, it was not the wizard at all! Two more dwarves forced their way through Bilbo's door, and hung two blue hoods on the pegs. "We are Fili and Kili at your..."

"Yes, yes, you're at my bloody service!" Bilbo interrupted. "Off with you then. The others are waiting for you."

The two dwarves stamped down the hall, when another knock came hard on their heels. Bilbo raised his eyes to the heavens, and grouched through gritted teeth, "Oh for the love of..."

But when Bilbo opened the door this time, he found, to his utter bewilderment, a dwarf in a pink hood. The Dwarf smiled and ecstatically exclaimed, "Hi, You must be Bilbo! Oooh, such an erotic name! I am Dumplin, at your service." The Dwarf then gave a knowing wink.

Bilbo opened his mouth to speak, but was speechless. This did not deter the Dwarf in Pink, who, without taking a breath, added, "I'll just follow the others and get a bite to eat. Do you have a latte? Oh, never mind, I'll make some myself. Oh my dear, we have so much to talk about. I am intrigued by hobbits and their big feet. You know what they say..." He then winked again and pinched Bilbo's bottom as he passed down the hall.

All Bilbo could do was jump and blurt out a startled "What the...?" When yet another series of knocks rattled his door down to the very jambs. Bilbo heaved a heavy sigh and swung the door open. There before him stood a veritable horde of dwarves in variously colored hoods mobbing his stoop. "And just who in the name of hearth and hob are all of you?"

One of the Dwarves, named Gloin, stepped forward and bowed. "We are the dwarves of limited speaking roles, at your service." He stated matter-of-factly. "Bit actors and carnies mostly. There is so few decent parts for we dwarves as of late, what with CG animation taking away all the Oompaloompa roles in Charlie and the Chocolate factory."

Another Dwarf named Dori hissed, "That Tim Burton bastard!"

Gloin shushed his companion and continued, "At least this gig pays union scale, and is not some dwarf-tossing event at the local county fair."

But Dori would not be shushed, and added, "Dwarf-bowling is even worse."

By this time, Bilbo had become resigned to the fact that the entire Dwarvish Nation would eventually be at his door, and so, with a rolls of his eyes he shouted (a bit sarcastically), "Come in, come in! I am Bilbo Baggins at your service! The rest of your herd is already raping my pantry. What's a few more, eh?

The dwarves cheered wildly and swarmed around, over and under Bilbo. Soon there was the merry sound of clinking mugs and cracking plates and loud Dwarvish singing. Bilbo passed a quivering hand over his sweating brow and was about to follow the Dwarves, when a loud knock shook him from his nightmarish reverie. "Oh, please be Gandalf!" He whimpered. But it was not to be. An immensely fat dwarf stood winded and panting on Bilbo's porch.

Bilbo raised an eyebrow "And you are?" He asked.

"Hungry!" was Bombur the Dwarf's reply.

"Of course you are!" Bilbo replied in mock excitement. "Come in! Come in! I am sure there are a few cattle I can wrangle up for you."

And so, a dismayed Mr. Baggins followed the fat Bombur's bumbling waddle down the hall, and rushed to serve the ravenous dwarves, who had started eating the rush seats off his kitchen chairs.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3: An Unexpected Party**

Even with the eventual arrival of Gandalf the Gray and Thorin Oakenshield, an immensely important leader of the dwarves (and quite nattily attired, I must say), the ransacking of Bilbo's hobbit-hole continued unabated. Imagine the scene, if you will. There was poor Bilbo, shunted off to a corner by the hearth as the dwarves behaved like drunken 16th Century Portuguese sailors just returned to port after transporting a load of seasick llamas from the New World to the Viceroy in Lisbon for his zoological gardens. Believe me, after several months at sea, those llamas were looking mighty good, even without makeup! In any case, tables were being overturned, glass was breaking and the Dwarves were singing drunken wenching songs of llama lust. Okay, they weren't really singing about llamas, as those creatures do not appear in the Tolkien bestiary, but you get the picture.

"Please be careful with that!" Bilbo cried as a dwarf hurled a plate like a Frisbee to another dwarf sitting across the table.

"No, don't use that one," Bilbo whined. "Please, it's my Battle of Greenfields Sesquicentennial Commemorative mug!" Unfortunately, the dwarf belched in unison with Bilbo's plea, thus missing the significance of the mug as he crushed it against his forehead.

"More ale, Bilbo!" Dwalin demanded.

"And more cakes!" Balin barked.

"And more meat!" Bombur burped.

"And more cleavage!" Dumplin declared while leering down Bilbo's opened collar.

Bilbo quickly buttoned his shirt up to his double chin and pleaded, "Please, my good dwarves -- please, do be more careful!"

Middle-earth folks are funny. They find the oddest times to start singing, and they have a song for every occasion -- seemingly prepared in advance with appropriate rhyme scheme and meter. For the Dwarves, this was one such instance:

_Chip the glasses and break the plates,  
Carve obscenities into the table --  
That's what Bilbo Baggins hates,  
Plunder the cupboards and switch the labels._

_Spread grease upon the kitchen walls,  
Vomit all over the welcome mat,  
Play rugby up and down the hall,  
Break the bottles and bury the cat [a cat shrieks]._

_Burn the tapestries, molest the sheep [plaintive bleating],  
Urinate down the cellar stairs --  
That's what makes poor Bilbo weep,  
Torture the houseplants and crucify hares [insert a quick animation of a rabbit nailed to the cross on Golgotha in the style of Raphael with a Gregorian chant as background music]. _

Suddenly, Gandalf's mighty voice rose above the din like booming thunder: "Enough! That will be quite enough of that!"

The silence was immediate, except for a dwarf falling from a chandelier; but Gandalf ignored this faux pas, and in a more businesslike manner exclaimed, "Now, we have urgent business to attend to…"

Bilbo was very much relieved that Gandalf had quieted the rabble-rousing Dwarves. Clearing away some broken crockery and cat entrails from a seat next to the wizard, he sat down gingerly, cringing as small shards of pottery dug into his posterior. Upset as he was, Bilbo hadn't really paid attention to Gandalf's introductory speech, but by this time the wizard had evidently given the floor to the immensely important dwarf, Thorin Oakenshield, who got his nick by swatting Orcs with the branch of an oak tree, which, of course, bears little resemblance to a shield (either the round buckler variety or the more substantial medieval heater shield)...

Thorin cleared his throat with a pronounced "Ahem", and the narrator also yielded the floor.

Thorin then stood up in an immensely important manner. Well, as immensely important as a four-foot dwarf could with his head barely rising over the edge of the table, and he said: "We are gathered here on this most auspicious of occasions to discuss, debate and otherwise converse in a high-minded and grave manner regarding the pitfalls, perils and myriad dangers the journey which we shall be soon undertaking is so decidedly fraught with... "

Bilbo leaned over to Gandalf and whispered, "Does he always talk like that?"

Gandalf frowned and replied, "Shhhh! It's far better than his singing!"

Meanwhile, Thorin continued: "...Death will be a welcomed release for many of us who choose to trod on this most hazardous adventure..."

Bilbo nudged Gandalf and whispered again, "God, I'm glad I have no part in this."

Thorin was still rambling: "...and I am most grateful that our newly-hired burglar has chosen to risk his very life and limb for we dwarves in the pursuit of our lost legacy..."

Bilbo rolled his eyes and commented to Gandalf, "Hah, what idiot would go and risk his life for a bunch of flea-bitten dwarves?"

Thorin, by this time, was completing his droning oratory: "…and so, my good dwarves, three cheers for Mr. Bilbo Baggins!"

"Wha?" Bilbo sputtered.

The dwarves proclaimed in unison, "HUZZAH! HUZZAH! HUZZAH!"

Bilbo managed to spit out, "I beg your pardon, but..."

"And now I believe it's time for a song!" Thorin cried to general acclaim.

"Oh no, not another song!" Gandalf groaned.

Thorin blew his pitch pipe, but hummed off-key. Eventually pipe and dwarf reached an accord, and he began singing in a deep, rich tone:

_In caverns deep in days of old,  
We built our keeps of solid gold.  
Labor was cheap, we bought and sold  
With laissez-faire our motto._

_The market trade went up and down,  
But we got paid in golden crowns.  
The arms we made gained high renown,  
And booty filled our grottoes._

_Never hunted deer or herded sheep,  
We had kegs of beer and slabs of meat.  
Men supplied near all we could eat,  
And Hobbits sent po-ta-toes._

_But in every dwarf's life, a little rain must fall --  
And that is why it does us well to recall…_

To Bilbo's astonishment, the dwarves had seemingly pulled musical instruments out of thin air, breaking out their saxes and trumpets, trombones and tubas, banjoes and harmonicas. Turning to Thorin with mouth agape, Bilbo perceived that the dwarf had donned a pair of dark horn-rimmed sunglasses and was snapping his fingers and bobbing his head back and forth like Ray Charles. Thorin yelled "Hit it!" and the dwarven band started playing a swing-blues number:

_This here's the story 'bout Smaug the deathless,  
His breath so fiery it'd leave you breathless.  
He was the meanest old dragon spawn,  
And he burnt up the dwarves until we was gone!_

_Hi-ho hi-ho hi-ho (Hi-ho hi-ho hi-ho),  
Us dwarves are sho' 'nuf' po' (Hi-ho hi-ho hi-ho).  
Oh-Hi-ho hi-ho hi-ho  
It's off to work we go (Hi-ho hi-ho hi-ho)._

_He went and 'et up the King under the mountain,  
He's gone and defiled our drinking fountains,  
He drove us dwarves so far, far away --  
We sing the Lonely Mountain Blues till this very day._

_Hi-ho hi-ho hi-ho (Hi-ho hi-ho hi-ho),  
Us dwarves are sho' 'nuf po' (Hi-ho hi-ho hi-ho).  
Oh-Hi-ho hi-ho hi-ho,  
So it's off to work we go (Hi-ho hi-ho hi-ho)._

_Now we is exiled, and wherever we roam,  
We aint got no hearth, we aint got no home.  
Now we's off on our journey 'ere the break of day,  
To find that buggerin' old Smaug and make him pay._

_Hi-ho hi-ho hi-ho (Hi-ho hi-ho hi-ho),  
Us dwarves are sho' 'nuf po' (Hi-ho hi-ho hi-ho).  
Oh-Hi-ho hi-ho hi-ho,  
So it's off to work we go (Hi-ho hi-ho hi-ho)._

_Hi-ho hi-ho hi-ho (Hi-ho hi-ho hi-ho),  
It's off to work we go (Hi-ho hi-ho hi-ho).  
Oh-hi-ho hi-ho hi-ho,  
Us dwarves are sho' 'nuf po' --  
Sho' 'nuf,  
Sho' 'nuf,  
Sho' 'nuf po'!_


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4: Meaningless Dialogue betwixt Two More Meaningful Chapters **

Bilbo awoke the next morning with a pounding headache. All through the night, the dwarves and Gandalf had spoken in low whispers regarding the far-off Lonely Mountain, of Smaug the dragon, and the burgling of Dwarvish treasure that was to be done by the reluctant Bilbo. Bilbo Baggins -- a burglar? The very idea was preposterous! The Bagginses were respectable and did not stoop to thievery. Oh sure, they occasionally cheated peasants out of their land through dubious foreclosure methods, or bumped off their opponents on the Shire Council with toxic elderberry tarts, but these were white-collar crimes. So what if another Took went off on an 'adventure' and was never heard of again? It's not as if anyone really missed any of those inane eccentrics.

Bilbo's headache abated a bit as he snuggled against his plush pillow and sank deeper into his four-poster feather bed. The dwarves and Gandalf had left hours ago, and all was now peacefully quiet. Perhaps, just perhaps, none of the previous night's antics had ever happened!

"That's it!" Bilbo murmured, to no one in particular. "It was all a bad dream -- probably brought on by an undigested bit of beef."

But Bilbo suddenly got the sinking feeling he was not alone in his chambers. He very carefully attempted to squint out of one eye, but found it was sealed shut with that gooey sleep stuff that acts as mucousy cement in the morning. Cursed allergies! He sighed and rubbed the gunk out of his eyes. There before him stood a scantily clad hobbit-maid bearing a tray with hot tea and a steaming breakfast.

"Hello...who are you?" Bilbo gasped.

"Don't be silly, dear Bilbo!" the lovely vision said, "I am Bawdy...Bawdy Brandybuck, the contractually obligatory Hollywood love-interest. One cannot very well have an epic movie now-a-days without a love interest, even if it has no bearing on the story itself, nor has anything whatsoever to do with the original plot.

"I see," Bilbo said groggily, still getting his bearings. "But wait, isn't this a book?"

"Oh, it is merely a book now, silly Bilbo," Bawdy chattered cheerfully, "but eventually the author will sell all the movie rights to pay back taxes, never dreaming that someday a big-budget feature film will be made after he is dead. Oh, he will be pissed! Or rather, he would be pissed had he lived to see it; or not see it, rather, as it would probably kill him in any case."

Bilbo, entranced as he was with Bawdy's cleavage, had heard sounds that seemed to be words emanating from an aperture somewhere above Bawdy's neck. "I'm sorry," he said, finally managing with a tremendous effort to bring his eyes up to her face, "did you say you were my love interest?"

"Yes, and I've practiced my forlorn, teary-eyed face all weekend for when you depart on your silly adventure. See?" Bawdy passed her hand across her face, and voila! She was all forlorn and teary-eyed.

'Ah, of course," Bilbo smiled wanly, trying to show enthusiasm, "nicely done."

"Oh, thank you." Bawdy beamed. "One can almost sense me pining, can't one?"

"Certainly," Bilbo replied.

"Would you like to see the winsome, sultry face I'll be doing for the flashback sequences?"

"No, that won't be necessary. Look, who did you say you were again?"

"I am Bawdy Brandybuck, your cousin twice removed on your mother's side, and thrice removed on your father's. I guess you could say I have a little of you in me from both ends." She then smiled wistfully.

Bilbo, with mouth agape, managed to mumble, "Right."

Bawdy fumbled about her nightie, desperately searching for something. "Oh dear, I had almost forgotten, Gandalf left you a letter..."

Bilbo snatched the letter from Bawdy and quickly ripped it open. Yes, the letter was certainly from Gandalf, as the bold scrawl attested. Bilbo read it earnestly, assisted by an overdub of Gandalf's voice (again, for the future film rights):

"My Dearest Bilbo: By now you will have realized that last night was not, in fact, a dream, but rather the beginning of a long, hard road..."

As Bilbo tried valiantly to read, Bawdy tousled his hair.

"....we shall endeavor to throttle the serpent with both hands..."

Bawdy began to caress Bilbo's leg and gave him a wet kiss on the cheek.

"…We must come at it with everything we've got..."

Bawdy playfully bit Bilbo's neck.

"…We shall not finish until the deed is done..."

Bilbo reached over to kiss Bawdy.

"BILBO! ARE YOU PAYING ATTENTION?"

Bilbo snapped out of his reverie with a jerk and resumed reading.

"Now, you are already late, it's almost noon and the dwarves and I have already started our march. You must leave immediately!"

"Drat!" Bilbo fumed and he was about to crumple up the letter.

"….AND NO BACK TALK!"

Bilbo sighed, pushed Bawdy aside and hurriedly started dressing.

Bawdy was quite distressed. "But Bilbo dear, you can't go yet...we haven't...haven't..."

"Haven't what?" Bilbo said distractedly as he pulled on his breeches.

"We haven't...bumped uglies."

Bilbo replied agitatedly, "Well, I'm sorry, m'dear; I've no time for bumping uglies or bumping anything else for that matter. Gandalf is a wizard, after all, and he's far too dangerous when he is angered. Now, goodbye my dear, I must run!"

"BILBO!" Bawdy cried, giving her best forlorn, teary-eyed face. But Bilbo had run out the door without so much as a good-bye.

"Well, if that don't beat all!" Bawdy sighed as she lay back in bed. She bit her lip pensively as if she were waiting for something. After a few moments, she cried out, "Alright Gaffer, you can come out now."

From a great wooden wardrobe in the corner of the room, Gaffer Gamgee swung open the doors and jumped onto the bed, falling into the waiting arms of Bawdy Brandybuck.

ooOOooOOoo

And so, Bilbo had run off on his adventure, leaving poor Bawdy Brandybuck...errrr...pining in the bedchamber. As Bilbo ran panting along the road, he realized that in his haste to be away he had left many important items behind, essentials that he was never without when off on a journey: his walking stick, his handkerchiefs, his handy shaving kit with travel toothbrush and nose-hair tweakers. But worst of all...he had forgotten to bump uglies!

"ARRRRRRRRRGGGGHHHHH!" Bilbo railed regretfully.

Eventually, Bilbo caught up with the dwarves at the great crossroads east of Hobbiton. Trudging onward, they left the heart of the Shire with Gandalf in the lead astride a great white stallion.

"'Ere now," fat Bombur grumbled, "why's 'ee get to ride a horse while we all walk?"

The narrator, by this time quite used to interrupting the plot, explained that, because of future film costing considerations, it was more than likely a single stallion would be all the production team could afford with a limited budget. Would Bombur care to have a pair of coconut shells to simulate the clip-clop of horse's hooves?

Bombur scratched his head. "Ummm...what's a coconut?"

Never mind. As I was saying, the determined group of travelers left the Shire. Minutes turned into hours, hours into days, and it became very cold and wet, and the lands became strange and rather empty (hence, I suppose, why one calls them the 'Lonelands'). It was getting on towards evening, and the rain was becoming torrential. Cold, bedraggled and soaking, the intrepid group of adventurers decided to stop for the night.

"Drat!" Balin cursed. "I can't seem to light a fire."

Dwalin, who was never very bright, surmised, "Could be because everything's sopping wet."

"You think?" Thorin grumbled, rolling his eyes. "By the way, where's that confounded Gandalf ran off to?"

"I haven't seen him for hours," Balin answered thoughtfully.

Bombur growled sarcastically, "Probably was the only one who got proper accommodations due to the production team's limited budget. Pffft!"

"Well, it would help if he were here," Bilbo sighed.

"Why?" Dwalin asked. "Is he flammable?"

"Yes...no...I mean he's very adept with fireworks," Bilbo replied. "Perhaps he could get a fire started."

"That's all very well, Mr. Baggins," Thorin huffed in a very important manner, "but it seems the wizard has flown the coop, and we'll just have to rely on our own vast expertise. We dwarves are very resourceful in the wild, you know."

Thorin and Bilbo then watched in dismay as Balin and Dwalin blew furiously on logs submerged in a muddy puddle.

"I wish I'd brought my Zippo," Bilbo said ruefully.

"Is that some newfangled Hobbitish invention?" Thorin inquired.

"No, actually he's my cousin, Zippo Baggins. Very good at starting fires; unfortunately, he was arrested for arson in Hobbiton...."

"Hey, look over there!" Bombur shouted in excitement. "I think I see a light, there through the trees!"

"I do believe you are right, Bombur," Thorin agreed, squinting badly as he was far too important to wear spectacles. "Why, it looks like a bonfire! Fili, Kili, I want you to go investigate immediately."

A prolonged silence ensued.

"Well?" Thorin growled. "Aren't you going to answer me!"

"Sorry chief," Gloin replied, "as union steward for the dwarves with limited speaking roles, I must tell you that, contractually, Fili and Kili have already used their single line of dialogue for this book. You'll just have to get someone else to do it."

"Cursed unions!" Thorin hissed. "Ah well, Mr. Baggins, I suppose you had better go and reconnoiter the situation. We're not paying you to sit about when there's burgling and...reconnoitering...to be done.

"But you haven't paid me anything!" Bilbo answered indignantly.

"Nonsense! You've eaten our food, haven't you?" Thorin was quick to reply.

"Not to mention loungin' in these here deluxe accommodations!" Bombur added.

"But I am cold and wet!" Bilbo whined.

"Never you worry, Bilbo dear," Dumplin said while batting his eyes, "I'll keep you warm."

"Right then," Bilbo said with determination, "I'll be off now."

Stay tuned for further adventure in the next chapter, '_Roast Mutton'_, right after a message from our sponsor, Johnson's _New and Improved Navel Cleaner_:

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	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5: Roast Mutton**

Bilbo set off to discover the source of the strange light in the woods, followed for a bit by the dwarves, who wished neither to appear cowardly, nor miss a chance to bag some easy swag, if the proper circumstance presented itself. Needless to say, after a long trek through the bracken and brush (and grumbling all the way), the dwarves stopped a goodly distance from their goal, leaving Bilbo the burglar to practice his appointed profession without their interference, but not until Thorin gave Bilbo some sage advice.

"Now, be careful, but do not hesitate," Thorin whispered hoarsely.

"Yes," Bilbo replied.

"Just get a lay of the land, so to speak, and then come back."

"Alright then."

"But don't take overlong."

"Certainly."

"If trouble should arise, make three short warbles like a rosebreasted grosbeak, and then a series of mating calls like the male piping plover."

"And we shall answer," Balin added, "in the antiphonal duetting of a bobwhite quail."

"Ummm...huh?" Bilbo was bebothered and flummoxed. "Do what with a which?"

"Off you go then," Thorin smiled reassuringly, patting Bilbo on the back.

Bilbo slunked stealthily through the woods towards the mysterious light, not even daring to breathe. As he approached the clearing, Bilbo indeed saw a roaring bonfire and three figures of giant stature gnawing on great, greasy legs of roast mutton. Even though he had never seen one, Bilbo was convinced these were trolls based on their tremendous size and their gruff voices speaking in a vulgar language that was almost foreign to Bilbo. Even now, the trolls were engaged in an argument.

The troll Bilbo later indentified as William was growling and grunting: "...but Boethius' Consolation of Philosophy, with its reverent Platonism, certainly had a direct effect on Thomistic Scholasticism and even on the works of Chaucer."

Another troll, Bert, was obviously being disagreeable: "Yes, yes, you and your Neo-Platonist platitudes. Boethius' work has been largely rejected for a more Aristotelian view, and a modern emphasis on material productiveness."

And it seemed the third troll, Tom, sided with Bert: "Not to mention Boethius' inward looking virtues -- quite foreign these days."

"Yes, that's precisely what I am saying," Bert nodded with a satisfied air.

William would not back down. "Yet it is noble to eschew worldly goods such as money and power, and to seek instead internalized virtues."

But neither did Bert. "But nobility will not feed an empty stomach, Bill m'dear; the more practical applications of Aristotle and the rational search for meaning found in his scientific method..."

"Bah!" William spat. "The scientific method! Just another means by which the military-industrial complex foists its technocracy on the proletariat, subjugating the masses in industrial thrall with the nodding consent of the pretentious bourgeoisie!"

"Bloody Marxist Franciscan swine!" bellowed Bert.

"Capitalist Jesuit hyena!" William countered and stuck his greasy thumb in Bert's eye.

The trolls then started bashing each other with branches and rolled about near the fire. While the mayhem ensued, Bilbo saw a chance to practice his burgling skills. He had noticed that a large purse was hanging enticingly from William's pocket. Summoning up every ounce of courage he possessed, Bilbo snuck into the circle of light.

"Easy now, Bilbo," the hobbit said to himself, "just slip the purse from the pocket and sneak back to the dwarves, no worse for the wear..."

But, as we all know, trolls' purses are enchanted (how we know that, I am not sure, but it seems plausible). Suddenly the purse, in a voice reminiscent of Maurice Chevalier, shrieked in patois, "Vat ees thees? Eet seems I am being -- how you say -- purloined by un petit burglar sans hauteur! Mon dieu! L'aide, je suis volé!"

In a twinkling, William had roughly picked Bilbo up by an ankle and suspended him in mid-air. "Well, well, my dear chaps," the troll laughed, "look who's come for dinner!"

"Hmmm, he seems a bit on the smallish side, Bill," Tom said thoughtfully. "Perhaps we should stuff him in a capon l'orange met sous verre, garnished with leeks and pimento."

Bert shook his head. "Nonsense, Thomas, he is obviously a hors-d'oeuvre -- a finger food, if you will."

"Fingers and toes, my dear Bertram," Tom chuckled, "fingers and toes!"

"Ah, your wit is delicious, brother Tom," Bert replied.

"Enough of this idle banter, lads!" William growled. "We need to find out exactly what this creature is, and furthermore, if there are more of his ilk skulking about." The troll gave Bilbo a jarring shake and said harshly, "Now, little fellow, what have you to say for yourself?"

"Yes, what are you exactly?" Bert asked suspiciously.

Being suspended upside did not aid Bilbo in this interrogation. The blood was rushing to his head and the ashes from the fire had got in his eyes. All he could do was sputter, "I...I...am a bur...a hobbit."

"Burrahobbit?" Tom hissed incredulously. "What species is that precisely? An insect?"

"He appears more mammalian," Bert deduced. "Perhaps a rabbit with mange -- what with fur only about his head and toes."

"Never mind all that," William groused, "are there more of you about?"

Bilbo could not think clearly. "Many...None. There are none."

"Now that's a bit paradoxical," said Tom.

"I should say!" Bert agreed.

William was taking a dim view of Bilbo's dissembling. "Now look, my mammalian appetizer, what do you mean by 'many and none'?"

Just then, Balin walked into the midst of the camp, and faster than one could say, "Boy, am I in the wrong place at the wrong time," the dwarf was quickly scooped up and bagged by the trolls.

"Never mind searching for these silly little burrahobbits, my dear fellows," William roared, "there are dwarves about. I can smell 'em."

"I just thought you had gas, Bill," Bert said sympathetically. "You know how mutton disagrees with your digestion."

"Well, rest assured we won't be having any more mutton," William replied with a lascivious grin. "Tonight, I shall prepare Dwarf a la Guillame in a nice bordelaise sauce."

And so, as each dwarf crept warily into camp, the lurking trolls popped them into sacks. Soon, all thirteen were enveloped in smelly burlap, wriggling and mumbling helplessly by the campfire. Bilbo and the dwarves now found themselves in a fine stew (or would be stewed presently), and what of little Nell? Will she find Grandfather before the evil Taskmaster Moriarity sells the farm to her priggish cousin, Deacon Sprague? And will her delicate condition be revealed to her beau, Geoffrey DeBourgeron-Heathcliffe-Wellsley? How will she explain the drunken troop of Portuguese sailors and the trapeze in her boudoir? All these questions and more shall be answered in the next thrilling installment.

ooOOooOOoo

When last we left our band of intrepid questers, Bilbo's feet were near crushed by the wicked trolls and the dwarves were all in sacks, individually wrapped for a busy homemaker's convenience. Just pop them in boiling water, heat and serve. Voila! You have a tasty and economical meal for even the most trollish of appetites...

"HMMMMPPPPHHHMMMMPPPHHH!" Thorin said from his sack.

Right. Sorry. The unsuspecting trolls were gleefully preparing for their meal, but they never expected [cue menacing music]...THE SPANISH INQUISITION! Ha-ha-ha, just had to throw that one in there!

"HMMMMPPPPHHHMMMMPPPHHH!" Thorin continued, not at all amused at the narrator's callousness.

Yes, yes, hold your sack on. As I was saying, little did the unwitting trolls know that even now Gandalf had returned -- just in the nick of time!

"HMMPH-MMH!" Thorin said gratefully.

You're welcome.

As the trolls were preparing their dwarvish repast, a voice like Bert's was heard to say, "It was Thomas Jefferson who rightly said, 'Take from Plato his sophisms, futilities and incomprehensibilities, and what remains? His foggy mind.'"

William, who thought Bert was speaking, snarled, "Don't start that argument all over again, Bert, or it'll take all night!"

Bert, who thought it was William speaking, replied angrily, "Who's arguing, I should like to know? I thought you had an epiphany and were finally agreeing with Tom and me regarding the modern rejection of Plato."

"I'll give you an epiphany all right!" William barked. "Stop arguing, you lout!"

"I was not arguing," Bert said, "and I demand you retract you assertion!"

"I shall not!" William answered indignantly.

A voice like Tom's interrupted, "Well, Friedrich Nietzsche did say 'Plato is a bore.'"

William, who thought it was Tom speaking, sighed, "See? Now you've got Tom in on it, with his boorish asides!"

Tom, who thought it was Bert speaking, shot back, "I'm not in on nothing! But Bert's got a point about Nietzsche's appraisal...and what do you mean by boorish asides?"

"Nietzsche? Bah!" William spat. "A syphilitic mental-case mumbling nihilistic aphorisms!"

A voice like Bert's then spoke, "Well, Thomas Aquinas was so grossly obese he should have named his philosophy Elasticism rather than Scholasticism!"

William, who thought it was Bert speaking, said sarcastically, "Oh, very clever, Bert! Did you think that one up all by yourself, or did you confer with the other buffoon?"

Bert, who thought it was William speaking, yelled, "Who's the buffoon? You're the idiot arguing with himself, like some contradictory schizophrenic!"

And so, the philosophical battle of intellectual giants (well, trolls, actually) raged on through the evening, and into the night, and right up to the break of day, when...

"And isn't that just like an existentialist," William bellowed in exasperation, "trying to get the last posit in..."

But that was the last word poor Will or his troll brothers ever uttered. As the sun peeked over the hills, they froze in their positions, their rhetorical semantics forever suspended in mid-retort.

"Well, would you look at that," Bilbo shouted in relief, "the trolls have turned to stone!"

"Of course they turned to stone, dear Bilbo," Gandalf said as he popped out from behind some bushes. "Trolls can't take the sunlight."

"I get a rash myself," Bilbo replied, recalling his solar intolerance. Then the hobbit, finally noticing Gandalf's unexpected arrival, said, "Gandalf! Then it was you throwing your voice that caused the trolls to argue. Brilliant!" But a hint of annoyance crept into Bilbo's greeting and he glared at Gandalf. "Hey, wait a minute!" the hobbit hissed. "Where have you got off to? We nearly drownded in the rain, froze without a fire and were about to be fricasseed by pretentious trolls!"

Gandalf was rather taken aback. "Errrmm...I had to run an important errand. Yes, an errand that could not wait."

Gandalf's mind wandered back to the day spa at Rivendell, with Elvish maidens massaging him in a hot tub. But this pleasant reverie was rudely interrupted by Bilbo, "An important errand? Out here in the wilderness?"

Clearing his throat, Gandalf adopted his 'compassionate and wise wizardly mien' and said earnestly, "Never you mind, Bilbo. You are, after all, a small person in a large world; while a wizard's toil is great and never ends."

"Well, yes...of course," Bilbo said abashedly, "Forgive me."

"Think nothing of it, dear boy," Gandalf smiled. "But let us make haste and get these dwarves out of their sacks. They're near to suffocation, I'd wager."

"HMMPH-MMH!" Thorin said enthusiastically.

"My pleasure," Gandalf answered.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6: The Road to Rivendell**

Having handily dispatched the trolls and released the dwarves from bondage, Gandalf suggested that perhaps the trolls had a hidden cave nearby where they hid from the sun and stashed their swag as well. The wizard did a cursory search around the trolls' encampment, and parted some bushes near a rocky outcropping.

"Here's the cave door, but unfortunately it seems to be locked," Gandalf called out to the others. He heaved against the stone a few times, but there was no budging the troll's handiwork. He glared in annoyance at the obdurate aperture and sighed, "It is obvious we'll need magic to get this open. I once knew the songs to every Disney animated feature ever produced." Without further ado, he began singing a rather off-key version of Lady and the Tramp's 'Bella Notte'.

Over an hour later, the door remained locked, but Gandalf stubbornly continued singing:

"_Zip-a-dee-doo-dah, zip-a-dee-ay  
My, oh my, what a wonderful day  
Plenty of sunshine headin' my way  
Zip-a-dee-doo-dah, zip-a-dee-ay..."_

Thorin heaved a tremendous sigh, and plopped down on a nearby boulder. "Face it, Gandalf, It just doesn't seem to be working."

"Hmmm...perhaps a tune from a newer film," Gandalf shrewdly surmised. He adopted a French accent, and invited the dwarves to sing along:

"_Be our guest  
Be our guest  
Put our service to the test  
Tie your napkin 'round your neck, cherie  
And we provide the rest  
Soup du jour  
Hot hors d'oeuvres  
Why, we only live to serve  
Try the grey stuff, it's delicious  
Don't believe me? Ask the dishes..."_

"Excuse me...," said Bilbo, trying vainly to gain the attention of Gandalf and the dwarves, who had by this time locked arms in a Folies Bergere-style chorus line:

"_Course by course  
One by one  
'Til you shout, "Enough! I'm done!"  
Then we'll sing you off to sleep as you digest  
Tonight you'll prop your feet up  
But for now, let's eat up  
Be our guest  
Be our guest  
Be our guest  
Please, be our G-U-E-S-T..._"

"Halloo...excuse me," Bilbo cried out a bit louder, "I found this key over by the trolls. Perhaps it will help."

Gandalf somewhat sheepishly removed a black top hat from his head and replaced it with a more traditional conical wizard's cap. "Ahem...yes...well...that will do nicely, Bilbo, nicely indeed." The wizard then irritably grabbed the key away from Bilbo.

The stone door creaked open revealing a dank and dreary, foul smelling cobwebbed chamber. Gandalf, Bilbo and Thorin's company crept warily into the cave. The sunlight revealed a trove of oddities and treasures: aside from the bones of the trolls' previous victims, and a good deal of food stuffs stored carelessly about on various shelves, there were brass buttons, pots of gold, SPF 150 sunscreen, introductory makeup kits from Avon, a rather attractive gold lame' evening dress, colorful pumps, ballet flats and stylish stiletto-heeled thigh boots for every occasion, bustierres, chemises, camisoles, teddies...

"Ahem!" Gandalf grunted perturbedly in the narrator's direction. "That'll do!"

Errrmm, right...and in a corner they discovered some marvelous jewel hilted swords with wondrously wrought scabbards. Gandalf kept one, as did Thorin, and they gave Bilbo a handsome leather-sheathed dagger of the same make.

"Hmmm...These are no ordinary swords." Gandalf whispered in astonishment. "They are of an incomparable design, obviously First-Age craftsmanship."

"I shall call mine 'Sting'," Bilbo crooned happily.

Gandalf raised an eyebrow at the hobbit's impertinence. "But by the intricately carved runes on the blades, it indicates they were made by the Noldorin Elves who came from the Undying lands..."

"Ah, 'Sting' it is then!" Bilbo replied.

Gandalf became more irritated as he continued, "...who wrought these peerless and magic blades in the fabled city of Gondolin, hewn out of the very living rock of Thangorodrim. Its impervious walls sparkling of jewels, its spiraling white towers piercing the cerulean blue skies of the now lost land of Beleriand..."

Bilbo flashed his dagger about as if he were Errol Flynn. "Ha-ha, feel my 'Sting'!"

Gandalf rolled his eyes and mumbled in disgust, "Why don't you just call it 'Stab' and be done with it?"

Gandalf and the rest blithely skipped through the next few pages -- relatively boring stuff, like endless descriptions of landscapes and mountains, which of course will all be CG animated eventually -- and aren't we all rather tired of the replicated splendor of computer graphics? I know I am. So, they walked and walked...blah, blah, blah...and scrambled up the scenic mountains...blah, blah, blah...anyway, it was getting to be about supper-time (which would be dinner for you Yanks), when they came upon a hidden valley.

"Here we are!" Gandalf shouted, pointing his staff downward. "The fair valley of Rivendell where lives Master Elrond in the Last Homely House."

"What, is Elrond a bad housekeeper?" Bilbo asked.

"No," Gandalf replied.

"Ah, he's like one of those eccentric neighbors who insist on painting their house bright blue and plopping plastic pink flamingos and garden gnomes all about their front yard."

"No, not at all, Bilbo, don't be silly."

"Well, you did say his house was homely."

"Merely a figure of speech, dear boy," Gandalf sighed. "Homely meaning comfortable, at-ease, a place of relaxation and enjoyment."

Bilbo suddenly understood. "Ah, something like Madame Harbottle's House of Red Light?"

"Drop it," Gandalf said crossly.

Thorin suddenly put a hand to his ear and cried out, "Hark! Can you hear it? It sounds like...singing."

From the trees below in the valley came the melodious sounds of elvish voices raised in song. It was as if they knew the dwarves were coming:

_Where are you going,  
And why are you here?  
Your noses need blowing,  
You have wax in your ears._

_O! Toora-loora-lally,  
The Dwarves stink up the valley!_

_O! Where did you come from,  
And how long will you stay?  
Don't except much of a welcome  
When you smell that way!_

_O! Toora-loora-lie,  
'Tisn't the smell, but the burning of my eyes!_

_O! Follow the turnings,  
And head down the path --  
You're clothes will need burning,  
And you need a bath!_

_O! Toora-loora-loma,  
Gandalf save us  
From this dwarvish aroma!_

"Damnable Elves," Gandalf grumbled.

"Well, they seem quite gay," Bilbo said with a shrug.

"Oooh! You think so?" Dumplin chimed in enthusiastically.

"Errr...I meant gaiety, to be merry," Bilbo replied in annoyance.

"Well, gay or not, it's rather a rude welcome," Thorin said scowling.

"Don't let it bother you, Thorin," Gandalf said, "the mischievous elves are only having a little fun at your expense. It is rare they see dwarves now-a-days. But let's follow the path down to the Last Homely House -- before they get really nasty."

As the party of dwarves descended the winding, tree-lined path, the hidden Elves started to taunt them in earnest.

"Why do dwarves have beards?" asked one elf.

"I don't know, why do dwarves have beards?" replied another.

"So they can look like their mothers!" was the answer.

The second elf laughed aloud, "Ha-ha-ha! Here's one for you: A man in a hay wagon runs over a dwarf. When the man got down from the wagon to apologize, the dwarf says, 'I'M NOT HAPPY!' The man answers, 'Well, which one are you then?'"

"Ba-dump-bump!" a third elf added. "What do you get when you cross a dwarf and a donkey?"

"A little jack-ass about this tall!" Said the first.

Gandalf, sensing the danger, shouted. "Fly, you fools! This foe is beyond you!"

And so the dwarves barely managed to escape the savage taunting of the Elves by running as fast as their little legs could carry them down the path. Exhausted by their travails, they staggered the last few yards and finally found themselves upon the Placid Porch, hard by the Vapid Veranda that led to the Down-to-earth Doors of the Last Homely House!


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7: A Short Rest**

Having finally reached the Last Homely House, the road-weary company of travelers finally found rest and relaxation, but not along the lines of Madame Harbottle's House of Red Light -- if you get my meaning (wink, wink, nudge, nudge). The Last Homely House, as Bilbo would later recall, was not homely at all (like his acne-plagued cousin Primula Brandybuck); rather, it was perfect for just about anything: reading, writing, thinking, playing croquette with pink flamingo mallets, painting the roses red, talking with chess pieces...  
And if you go chasing rabbits  
And you know you're going to fall,  
Tell 'em a hookah smoking caterpillar  
Has given you the call.  
Call Alice  
When she was just small...

Suddenly, the editor intervened and said, "We regret the intrusion, but Narrator #1 has been caught in a bit of a flashback..."

But Narrator #1's rant continued unabated:

"When logic and proportion  
Have fallen sloppy dead,  
And the White Knight is talking backwards  
And the Red Queen's "off with her head!"  
Remember what the dormouse said..."

There were sounds of a struggle, and the book's editor added, "I am afraid he will have to go on short-term disability."

"Feed your head. Feed your head. Feed your head..."

There were sounds of shouting and scuffling, which faded as a door slammed somewhere in the limitless shadow outside the reader's perception, followed by the shuffling of paper by another writer hovering over the old oaken desk, fingers perched nervously atop the keyboard as he anxiously pecked out the first few lines of prose.

"Ahem...now, where were we?" Narrator #2 said, or typed, rather, "Ah yes, after a bit of a rest, the company of travelers were sent for to meet with Master Elrond."

Bilbo was fidgeting as he paced inside Elrond's chambers. "Now Gandalf, just who is this Master Elrond again?"

"He is a descendant of a great old family," Gandalf replied succinctly. "Quite famous, actually. His great-grandfather was the mortal Beren who was wed to Luthien, daughter of an Elf king and a Maia."

"What, like an Aztec?"

"No, Maia as in 'of the Maiar'. I am one myself."

"I didn't know you came from Peru!"

"Oh, skip it! Just know that Elrond is a half-elf."

"He's short then?"

"No, no, no!" Gandalf growled. "His father was mortal and his mother was an elf. No, wait...actually they both were elves, but his grandfather was mortal. Bah! Needless to say Elrond is still considered an elf, while his brother was mortal."

"That makes no sense genetically," Bilbo muttered in Darwinian confusion.

Dumplin the dwarf interrupted this witty repartee by asking, "Can dwarves wed elves?"

"I'm not sure," Gandalf answered hesitantly. "I don't see why not, as it has been done several times in fan-fiction stories. Why do you ask?"

Dumplin clasped his hands together and his face turned beet-red. "Well, there's this elf in Mirkwood named Legolas, and he's just GORGEOUS!"

Bilbo frowned and turned to Balin and Dwalin for an explanation. He whispered, "What is the story with Dumplin? He certainly acts odd."

Balin bit his lip, and then whispered back, "Well, actually, Dumplin is not a HE at all, but a SHE-dwarf, rather."

Dwalin, whispering also, replied, "Are you sure?"

Balin rolled his eyes. "Well of course I'm sure. Look at her beard!"

"Dumplin…is a she?" Bilbo said incredulously.

Balin shrugged. "Well, close enough for a lonely night on the road."

"You see, Bilbo," Dwalin added with downcast eyes, "we dwarves have very few females."

"What with half-elves from Peru and he-she dwarves, thank the Lord I'm a hobbit!" Bilbo grumbled.

Gandalf shushed his whispering comrades and said. "Quit your gossiping, you three, for here is Master Elrond!"

Elrond entered the chamber and sat regally upon a carved, oaken throne. He had been scanning manuscripts and drinking a glass of sherry before he noticed the coterie of travelers huddled in his hall.

"Welcome, welcome!" the Half-elf said enthusiastically as he stood again. "Do come in, please do. So nice to have dwarves about the Last Homely House. Here for a _short_ visit are we? Ha-ha, lovely, lovely. And what's this? A hobbit? My, I haven't seen one of your race for a thousand years. But then, there could be a few hiding 'neath the table and you couldn't see 'em, eh? eh? Ha-ha-ha, lovely, just lovely!

Gandalf bowed and said humbly, "We thank you for your hospitality, Master Elrond."

Elrond shot a smile at the wizard and winked. "Oh, no formalities, old friend, no formalities! You weren't so damned genteel in the hot tub the other night, eh wot?"

The dwarves all scowled at Gandalf, who quickly attempted to change the subject: "Ummm...yes...well...Master Elrond, we seek your aid. Thorin has a dwarvish map that needs deciphering."

"Oh-ho, a dwarvish map, eh?" Elrond said with genuine interest. "Devilishly tough, those. Usually written in shorthand. Ha-ha, _short_-hand! eh? eh? Lovely, lovely! Pray tell, Master Thorin, where did you come upon this map?"

Thorin cleared his throat in a very important manner, and said, "Well, it's quite a long story, actually, and it had to be edited out of the book in lieu of future scripting for the theater release of the movie. But it shall be told in its entirety in the Blue-ray Disc Extended Version available in stores this coming Christmas."

"Will it indeed?" Elrond said with delight. "Lovely, just lovely. No short subject documentaries for the dwarves, eh? eh? Ha-ha, lovely."

And so, after much discussion of book deals, studio contracts and Master Elrond's planned autobiography, the Half-elf set his great store of loremastery into deciphering the dwarven map. "Jolly wonderful the dwarves were at mapmaking once in their short history, eh? Lovely detail, wot?" Elrond said as he spread the map across a table. From a great window in the hall, the full moon appeared from behind the clouds and shone its wondrous white light full upon the map.

"Eh? What's this?" Elrond gasped.

Thorin drew nearer in curiosity. "Yes? What is it?" the dwarf huffed anxiously.

"Oh, nothing," Elrond muttered disappointedly, "this coffee stain looks remarkably like a dragon."

"Why, that is a dragon!" Gandalf said as he peered more closely at the map.

"Yes, yes...of course it is," Elrond backtracked. "Temporarily blinded by the moonlight, you know."

Gandalf gazed at the intricate designs on the parchment and said perceptively, "Hmm...it seems the moonlight is showing hidden runes and letters on the map."

"It is?" Elrond mumbled distractedly. "Oh yes, of course it is. They're called...ummm...moon letters. Yes, moon letters...that's what they are!"

"What are moon letters, wise Master Elrond?" Bilbo asked naively.

Elrond stared blankly at Bilbo for a moment, and then stuttered, "Why, they are...letters that...errrr...only show up in moonlight."

"My, you are wise," Bilbo said with newfound respect for the Half-elf. "Where did you learn that from?"

Elrond placed a finger and thumb against his chin, and considered the question for quite a while. Finally, he replied, "I believe it was in a rerun of an old MacGyver episode, or in an Umberto Eco novel about monks. I can't recall, really. I am a few thousand years old, after all."

"What do the moon letters say?" Bilbo asked, for he dearly loved maps.

"What do they say?" There was another long pause while Elrond considered the runic writing that lined the map. "Well, if I read the runes correctly," he drawled, "they say –'Stand by the gray crone until her knees knock' -- and then it says – 'and the sitting nun with a bad bite from tooth decay will shut her pie-hole.'"

Thorin frowned mightily and grouched, "But that makes no sense at all!"

"It doesn't?" Elrond said with a mix of surprise and confusion.

"No, it certainly does not," Gandalf concurred. "Where are we to find an old crone in a habit with periodontal disease who we have to shut-up? And what good will it do us in any event?"

Elrond glared indignantly and reconsidered his translation. "Well, the other translation seems even more daft – 'Stand by the gray stone when the thrush knocks, and the setting sun with the last light of Durin's Day will shine upon the key-hole.'"

"Durin's Day! A thrush knocking!" Thorin said triumphantly.

"That makes sense to you?" Elrond said, by now even more confused than before.

"Yes, yes it does," Thorin replied smugly. "Durin's Day arrives in autumn and the key-hole in question is obviously a secret entrance to the Lonely Mountain! And I have the key! All we need to do is find the stone where the thrush knocks on Durin's Day and we shall find the secret entrance!"

Elrond cocked an eyebrow, and then rolled his eyes in disgust. "Oh yes, that does make a lot of sense. You'll have more luck finding the toothless old nun with creaky joints."

Thorin called out to his dwarvish followers, "We'll have to be on our way, and soon, if we want to reach the Lonely Mountain by Durin's Day. If I remember correctly, it is the first day of the last moon of autumn."

Elrond, still dismayed at this turn of events, asked, "Would that be the Julian or Gregorian Calendar?"

"Or is it by Shire Reckoning?" Bilbo added, trying to offer a germane bit of trivia.

"Neither and none," Gandalf answered definitively, "as the proper chronology for Middle-earth has not been fixed as of yet; not until Tolkien writes _The Lord of the Rings_."

"_The Lord of the Rings_?" Bilbo blurted in confusion. "Is that a take-off on _The Sword of Shannara_?"

Gandalf was about to answer when Elrond interjected, "May I ask a favor, Gandalf?"

"Most certainly, Master Elrond," Gandalf said with a bow.

"Take me with you."

"What?"

"Please, take me with you, Gandalf!

"Master Elrond, I don't understand..."

Elrond sighed sadly and ran his finger enviously across the map. "I am bored, Gandalf, bored! I feel sort of thin and stretched...like not enough mayonnaise scraped over too much bun."

"Buns?" Gandalf gasped.

"It's the Elves, Gandalf -- So damn merry!" Elrond mumbled mournfully. "No wonder why they call death the Gift of Men! It's jolly well preferable than to living here for thousands of years --they don't even have cable! Always tra-la-la-lally, hopping and skipping, all blonde, all dull as doorknobs!"

Gandalf was bewildered. "But..."

Elrond smiled with infinite melancholy and sighed again, "Let me explain."

The lights suddenly dimmed and a single spotlight shone on Elrond from some aperture hidden high among the roof beams.

**ELROND'S SOLILOQUOY**

_An Elf or not an Elf...that is the question.  
Whether 'tis nobler to be mortal and suffer  
The twinges and hair-loss of mankind's fortune,  
Or to take up Elfdom and unlimited potential,  
and by inference become immortal. An Elf -- to sleep no more --  
Because Elves rarely sleep given their high metabolism.  
But there is heartburn -- a thousand years of eating lembas --  
Does not aid in my digestion. 'Tis not a bowel movement  
One would wish on an enemy. And sheep -- the sheep that yearn to dream --  
Ah, I've lost count. For in that count of sheep no dreams may come,  
While snuggly mortals coil soundly 'neath comforters and nap without pause,  
There's only insomnia that makes a calamity of so long a life...._

While Elrond rambled in stilted iambic pentameter, the company of travelers had quietly slipped unnoticed from the Last Homely House, and even now were heading up the great slopes of the Misty Mountains.

Elrond gazed about the empty room and cried inconsolably, "Hey! Where did everyone go?"

The only answer was by way of an elven chorus, which sang:"Tra-la-la-la-lappy, Elrond isn't happy"

"Oh good lord," Elrond shouted as he slumped to the floor.

But the elven choir continued: "Tra-la-la-la-lever, you're stuck with us forever!"

Elrond covered his ears and sobbed softly.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8: Over Hill and Under Hill**

With a great sense of relief, Gandalf, Bilbo and the dwarves had escaped the dread gaiety of the elves and the taxing dialogue of the Last Homely House. Guiding their ponies up the circuitous paths that led to the very heights of....

"'Old on, just a minute!" Bombur yelled in dismay, suddenly finding himself straddling a jackass, when only moments earlier he had been trudging up the mountain on foot. "Where did we get these blinkin' ponies from?"

"Well, you see, that is a rather long and sordid story," Narrator #2 replied, now abandoning altogether the sacrosanct separation of third person omniscient narration and internalized character dialogue.

"Well, I aint gotta walk no more," Bombur said while placing his hands contentedly atop his voluminous belly, "so, I got plenty 'o' time."

"Alright then," Narrator #2 grumbled, realizing he now had to type an entire extra paragraph merely for Bombur's gratification. "It's like this. The editors in charge of this project have decided to abandon the novel form of this story altogether, opting instead for an adapted screenplay, which they sold to a studio in Rome. Unfortunately, the Italian funding the producers were expecting has fallen through (I told them they shouldn't trust the Italians), and subsequently the production team has had to sell the utility vehicles that were expected to be used as transport in all the Misty Mountain scenes. As a consequence of this budget reduction, they've had to buy these ponies on the cheap from a local glue factory to do the job instead. You'll notice various different departments' equipment crammed into your packs.

Bombur scratched at his beard irritably. "So, we aint in a book no more, we are in a film? Well, don't that beat all!" A thought suddenly occurred to the fat dwarf: "Well, don't that defeat the suspension of disbelief required for a successful fantasy movie? I mean, the last scene we was scramblin' up the mountain on foot, and the next we're ridin' ponies?"

Narrator #2 shrugged (which of course Bombur couldn't see, as the narrator was, after all, still invisible), and answered, "Not any more so than a costumed character in a fantasy piece having an out-of-context discussion with an off-camera narrator."

Bombur shrugged in turn. "Right, you got me there. Go on then."

As the stalwart band of travelers made for the pass that would lead them over the Misty Mountains, a virulent thunderstorm struck.

"Cue the virulent thunderstorm!" the director called.

"Cue the virulent thunderstorm!" echoed Randall, his assistant.

"I'm givin' 'er all she's got, Cap'n!" cried Scottie, the special effects supervisor.

The skies suddenly darkened, followed by a colorful animation sequence of a virulent thunderstorm, complete with stone giants playing cricket with lightning bolts and storm clouds.

"My, this is a virulent thunderstorm!" Bilbo said quailing.

"Indeed!" Gandalf shouted over the gale. "No sense in muddling our way further, I can't see a foot in front of my nose, and the pass is treacherous enough without missing the trail and falling into an abyss."

"That would be abysmal," Bilbo shuddered.

"I believe Fili and Kili have found a cave over to the right," Thorin shouted.

"Hmmm...I am not at all comfortable with lodging in a cave in these parts," Gandalf said warily. "One never knows what lurks inside."

Suddenly, a livid streak of lightning struck a nearby boulder, rending it asunder with a tremendous quaking boom.

Gandalf became more introspective. "But then again, perhaps we should go in; at least until the storm abates...for the sake of the hobbit."

Safe from the crash and din of the storm, the travelers -- soaking, bedraggled and low in spirits -- made a small fire with Gandalf's wizardly assistance, and huddled the ponies at the very far end of the cave. Shorn of their wet clothes and exhausted from the perilous journey up the mountain, it wasn't long before the company started to nod off. But Bilbo, who missed his feather bed dearly, found it difficult to sleep on the unforgiving stone. Floating in the netherworld betwixt consciousness and dreams, he believed he heard the sound of grinding rock.

"What's this?" he mumbled groggily, and managed to raise himself onto one elbow. To Bilbo's surprise, he beheld the last of the ponies being herded off into a great crack that had opened in the rear of the cave.

"This mountain certainly has an appetite," he said as he rubbed his eyes in disbelief. "I wonder what it eats when it can't get ponies?"

Coming fully to his senses, Bilbo saw goblins creeping from the crack where the ponies had disappeared. "GANDALF! HELP!" he shrieked.

Bilbo's cry wakened his companions, foremost of all Gandalf, who, having a knack for self-defense, unleashed a bolt of lightning, killing several goblins. In the smoke and confusion, the wizard saved himself by disappearing, leaving Bilbo and the dwarves at the mercy of the remaining infuriated goblins, who grabbed the helpless hobbit and dwarves and dragged them through the crack, which snapped shut with an angry crash.

"I 'eard tell you 'airy-footed 'alf-pints like singin' and merriment," an orc said as he dragged Bilbo along.

"That's Hobbits, not half-pints, thank you," Bilbo replied indignantly, "and yes we do like singing and making jolly."

"Garn, he's a precocious li'l blighter, aint 'ee?" cackled a second orc.

"I'll say," the first orc agreed. "But 'ee'll change 'is tune once we 'ave our way wi' 'em! Ready m'boys?"

A pitch pipe sounded ominously in the darkened stone corridor, followed by several goblins struggling to get in tune. Bilbo would never forget the torment that came next – an ungainly and grotesque chorus of foul orcs:

"_The hills are alive with the sound of goblins,  
Wi' songs we have sung for a thousand years!  
The hills shake your bowels with the sound of goblins,  
And enchained, you can't stop up your ears."_

The dwarves and Bilbo grimaced in agony, but fettered as they were with chains, they were indeed unable to withstand the attack.

"_Your heart wants to shriek like the wings of bats  
That rise like the dead in the dark,  
Your belly does a churn as the horse flies  
Leave maggots on droppings so stark.."._

"Enough! Enough!" Bilbo screamed. "Oh please, no more torture!"

"Ho-ho!" laughed the first goblin. "You think this is bad, do ye? Wait'll the Goblin King gets 'is 'ands on ye!"

"He sings worse?" Bilbo squeaked.

The second goblin coughed out a hoarse laugh and then became utterly serious: "Totally tone deaf."

"Aye, that 'ee is," laughed the other goblin. "Now, where were we?"

"_How do we solve a problem like a Baggins?  
How do you pinch and bite him while he's down?  
How do you find the words to insult a Baggins?  
Why, drag his sorry arse to Goblin-town..."_

ooOOooOOoo

Having been literally abandoned by Gandalf once again, Bilbo and the dwarves were in a bad way. They had been fiendishly serenaded by the diabolical goblins, and the torment was only beginning. Now they stood, heaped in chains, before the horrible and huge Great Goblin, named Marian after his domineering mother (which might explain his ill temper).

"Garn!" Marian bellowed from his throne. "Who are these miserable creatures?"

One of the orc drivers bowed and hissed, "Dwarves and a hobbit, Marian, your majesty."

The Dwarves and Bilbo giggled a bit.

"What?" The Great Goblin said with a scowl. "Is there something you find amusing?"

"No, not at all your highness," Thorin said with a smile, "in fact, we are quite taken aback at the impression you've _made_..._Marian_."

More giggling ensued from the dwarves and Bilbo.

The Great Goblin's eyes tightened into evil little slits. "I do not see the joke, no not at all! And what were you thieves doing on our front porch?"

"Thieves?" Thorin said puffing up his chest proudly. "I am no thief! Do not call me a Robbin' Hood, as there are much kinder, gentler names you might have _made...Marian_.

The stifled laughter of the prisoners became more pronounced.

"Oh, I get it! I get it!" the Great Goblin roared. "You think my name is funny do you? Marian is a girly name, is it?"

By now, the Dwarves and Bilbo could not answer, as they were convulsed in laughter.

"That's it! That is it!" the Great Goblin shrieked. "Janet and Betty -- throws this vermin in a pit!"

But a clap of thunder and a blinding streak of lightning seared the gloom of the cavern, and all the torches went out. The fell gleam of an elvish blade flashed from the shadows, and the Great Goblin became Marian in fact and not in name only. A second streak of the sword cleaved the castrato in twain.

Gandalf lit the end of his staff and shouted, "Quickly, fools, let us make our escape!"

And so Gandalf (returned from who knows where) led the band from the Great Goblin's throne room while the remaining gibbering goblins were thrown into chaos. Making their way down the darkened corridors beneath the mountain was slow going for even doughty dwarves accustomed to caverns; too soon, the goblins recovered from the castration of their erstwhile king and were now in hot pursuit.

"We must stop for a moment," Gandalf said, halting so quickly that the rest of the party fell over each other like bearded dominos. "The corridor branches off in several directions here and I need time to figure out which direction is best. Is everyone here?"

Thorin used his fingers to count down the members of the party, and when he ran out of digits, he borrowed one of Balin's hands to complete his count. "Two, three, four, eight, ten...thirteen dwarves and a hobbit. Yes, that makes fifteen."

"Fourteen," Balin corrected him.

"Fourteen, plus Gandalf -- fifteen!" Thorin replied and stuck out his tongue at Balin.

"I can hear the Goblins coming," Gandalf whispered; "therefore, I shall have to go on instinct here. We shall go in this direction."

"What makes that direction better than the others?" Bilbo asked in puzzlement.

Gandalf smiled at the hobbit tenderly. "My dear Bilbo, I am a wizard -- a member of the ancient order of Istari -- come from the Blessed Realm beyond the Western Sea. Have a little faith that I know what I'm doing based on my loremastery, innate magical ability and supernatural prescience."

Bombur rolled his eyes and said, "That, and the exit sign on the wall over there."

"Let's get going!" Gandalf shouted.

Madly they ran down into the blackness, followed by the shrieking, cursing goblins. But they had not counted on side corridors where lurking goblins laid in wait. All was confusion and chaos when the goblins ambushed. Poor Bilbo took a nasty knock on the noggin and fell from the path down a steep cliff that yawned along the edge. When he awoke, Bilbo was in complete darkness, with no sound of either goblin or dwarf nearby.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9: Riddles in the Dark**

Bilbo's head was swimming as he woozily leaned against the rough-hewn rock wall. The coolness of the stone was a welcome relief to his pounding head, rather like the feel of porcelain hugged after too much grog at a Yuletide celebration. But it was dark; the preternatural unlight of catacombs far underground. It was not at all to Mr. Baggins' liking.

"Oh why did I ever leave my hobbit hole!" Bilbo cursed. "Wait a moment" -- he slapped one of his vest pockets and found his pipe and pipeweed -- "now, that's a bit better!" he sighed happily. Lighting his pipe, which dispelled the gloom that engulfed him, he took a few delightful drags, and added, "Thank goodness, a little bit of home!"

**Production Disclaimer:** _The makers of this adapted screenplay (soon to be a major motion picture) in no way condone or endorse the use of tobacco products, as the use of said products are known to be carcinogenic and are filthy and nasty and we hates them. However, since we have received a rather hefty promotional fee from Philip Morris International (an Altria Company), we feel the product placement overrides the frivolous complaints we may receive from cranks and busybodies who make up a rather tiny percentage of the movie-going public. So smoke 'em if ya got 'em!_

"Now where did I put my knife?" he muttered. Fiddling about with his sock, he pulled out his blade, which glowed dimly in the dark. "Ah, Sting! This'll come in handy. Hmmm, now which way to go? Back? Well, I don't rightly know which way back is. To the right or left? No, don't want to take any more nasty falls. Oh well, I guess the only way to go is forward."

Struggling alone in the blackness, Bilbo crept silently down the tunnel, which seemed to have no end. On and on he went, unknowingly travelling deeper and deeper towards the heart of the mountain. Suddenly, without any warning he trotted with a splash into water.

"Ugh! It is icy cold!" Bilbo said shivering. "Is this a puddle or stream in the way of the path?"

Unbeknownst to Mr. Baggins, he was on the brink of a subterranean lake.

"Ah, so it is a lake and not an underground river!" Bilbo said with a smile.

Well, yes.

"I wonder how far off it goes, and if there are any strange creatures lurking about near the roots of the mountains?" he whispered warily.

Funny you should mention that...

"S-s-s-s! Quits interrupting!" hissed a voice from the darkness.

Look, do you want an introduction or not?

"Bah! Gets on with it, gets on with it."

Deep down here by the dark water lived old Gollum.

"That's us, precioussss." Gollum bowed.

Yes, and although we are saving a fascinating vignette of Gollum's early life and times for The Hobbit II, let's just say that old Gollum saw Bilbo a lot sooner than Bilbo saw him. But before we go on, Mr. Baggins, aren't you forgetting something?

"I'm not sure," Bilbo grumbled. "Did I miss a line?"

The ring! The ring!

"What? Oh yes...what's this?" Bilbo said as he caught a glint of something shiny on the ground. "Why, it's a ring! Imagine that. Looks to be no more than 12 or 14 karats, but it'll still fetch a pretty farthing or two at Fagin Took's Mathom and Pawn."

Put it away!

"What?"

Away! Put it away!

"Right. Sorry."

Suddenly, Bilbo heard a hissing coming from the lake.

"What the 'ell?" He muttered as he peered into the darkness.

"God bless us, everyone, precioussss!" Gollum said enthusiastically. "A tasty morsel, this one -- and no goblin. Bleahhh! We hates dark meat! _Gollum._"

Bilbo thrust his dagger forward and gasped, "Who are you?"

"What isss he, my precious? A clever bit of CGI p'raps? Much better than that nasty Jar-Jar...horrid animation, my precious, simply horrid."

"I...I am Bilbo Baggins.... and this...this is Sting, a blade from Gondolin!"

"Sssssss!" Gollum hissed as he caught the dull glow of the blade waving before him. Trying to be courteous (until he could separate his meal from the knife), he said, "P'raps we sits and chats with it a bitsy, eh, my precious? It likes games does it?"

"What, like Parcheesi or Stratego?" Bilbo said nervously.

"No, no, precious. No board games. We means riddles."

"Very well, riddles it is," Bilbo said with a shrug. "You go first."

Gollum grinned malignly and nodded. "Yesss, preciousss --

_What is as small as a pin,  
But looms large on your chin?  
Such a small deformity  
Is, socially, an eruptive enormity."_

"That's easy," Bilbo crowed proudly, "it's a zit!"

Gollum frowned, but then became more playful. "Does it thinks it's easy? It must have a competition with us, yes, it does, precious. If it tells us a riddle and we don't guesses it, we shows it the way out."

"And if you ask a riddle and I can't answer, what do you get?" Bilbo asked worriedly.

Gollum snarled, showing his sharp yellow teeth. "Dinner!"

Bilbo, at a loss for words at this point, merely replied, "Right. Here we go then --

_They're as ugly as sin,  
And they don't smell sweet,  
But you cannot begin  
Lest their marching in beat."_

Gollum giggled and rolled his eyes. "Isss that all you've got, precious? Pffft! It's feets...feets!" He squinted his lamp-like eyes slyly and said, "Now, here's mine --

_Wingless with flies,  
Not edible but pies.  
A relief when it parts,  
But bought by the cart."_

Now Bilbo laughed. "That's not too hard, considering how badly you smell. It's cow dung. Okay, here's one for you --

_Remove the outside,  
Cook the inside,  
Eat the outside,  
Throw away the inside."_

Now Bilbo thought this one was quite easy, but as he was pressed for time, it was the only one he could remember offhand; but it proved exceptionally hard for Gollum, who hadn't eaten anything but raw fish and an occasional orc the last few centuries.

"Ss-ss-ss. Chestnuts, precious, chestnuts," Gollum fretted, trying desperately to remember the old days.

"Well, are you going to guess or not?" Bilbo snapped, slapping his bare foot on the stone impatiently. "With all that hissing, one would think your guess was a tea kettle, but that would be wrong."

"Give us a chance; let it give us a chance, my preciouss-ss-ss," Gollum whined.

And then Gollum thought back to the days of his youth when his grandmother (a Rhodes Scholar and Oxford graduate) sat and detailed the many anachronisms present in Tolkien's published work (it was part of her thesis). There was tobacco and potatoes, trains and tomatoes, timepieces and...

"Corn! corns, my precious!" Gollum shouted triumphantly. "Or maizes as the Euros calls it! Ssssss...no mister nice guy, my precious, no more. Here's a toughie --

_It speaks loudly but says nothing --  
The seat of judgment without wisdom.  
It stands for nothing and sits concealed.  
It runs regularly but does not move.  
Each has a pair like unto brothers,  
But some loom larger than others."_

"Well, ahem...hmmm?" Bilbo was stumped.

Gollum slunk nearer to the hobbit and whispered, "Is it nice, my precioussss? Is it scrumptiously, munchably, scrunchably crunchable?"

"Half a minute now!" Bilbo cried indignantly. "I gave you a good long time while you were hissing like a steam boiler."

Gollum crept closer to Bilbo with fangs bared. "No, it must make haste, my precioussss. We don't wants to waste a taste, so hassste!"

Bilbo stepped back but found he was trapped against a wall. "But," he stuttered, "but..but? BUTT! A BUTTOCKS!"

Gollum sat back and grimaced in defeat. "Bah! Now its got to ask us a question. So assskks away."

"Ummmm...."

"Ask us! Ask us!"

Bilbo was out of ideas, and obviously running out of time. Suddenly, his hand glanced against the ring. "Errr...what have I got in my pocket?"

Gollum was flabbergasted by Bilbo's faux pas. "Not fair! Not fair!" Gollum shrieked. "Not fair to asks us what's it gots in its pocketses! It goes against longstanding rules of riddle etiquettes, it does! It goes against international riddling conventionses!"

Bilbo was unmoved and unwilling to back down. "Nevertheless, what have I got in my pocket?"

Gollum remained irritated but acquiesced, "S-s-s-s-s! It must give us three guesses, my precious, three guesses!"

"Alrighty then," Bilbo said with a nod and a wave of his hand, "ask away."

"A banjo?"

"Nope."

"Lint?"

Bilbo smiled and replied, "No. Unfortunately for you, I was so hungry, I scraped it all out and ate it about half an hour ago."

"Hands or nothing," Gollum said with disgust.

"No on both counts," Bilbo said with a little capering victory dance. "And since that makes four guesses, that means I have won -- game, set, match."

There was a prolonged silence, and Gollum refused to even look in Bilbo's direction.

"Well?" Bilbo said, raising his voice. "What about your promise? I want to go, and you must show me the way."

Will the wily Gollum show Bilbo the way out, or has Gollum's promise been nullified by Bilbo's infraction against ancient riddling conventions...es? Tune in next week for the exciting conclusion!

**TO BE CONTINUED...**

ooOOooOOoo

Ummm…well...I had forgotten this was not a serialization, and the editors have demanded I continue. Heh...okay, let me see. We were last in the very bowels of the mountains, and Bilbo had won the riddle contest; albeit through rather underhanded means. He was waiting for the creature Gollum to live up to his side of the deal, and as their was no legal remediation or collective bargaining at this juncture in Middle-earth history, Gollum was perforce impelled to perform the terms of his verbal agreement.

Bilbo stomped his foot impatiently, and said crossly, "Well? I want to go. You promised to show the way."

"Did we say so, precious?" Gollum dissembled. "Show the cheatin' little bugger out, yesss, yessss. But what has it got in its pocketses, that rascal Puff? Not strings or sealing wax or other fancy stuff! Oh no! _Gollum."_

"Never you mind," Bilbo said defiantly, "a promise is a promise!"

"Ss-ss-ss, Cross it is, irascibly brusque, precious. But it musn't go yet, no it mustn't. We mustn't go through tunnels so hasty. We must gets us some travel aids first. Yes, things to help us. _Gollum_."

"Well, hurry it up. I'm starting to feel like a mushroom in this dank dark."

And so Gollum paddled off in his little boat (how he managed to find wood in a subterranean cave is anyone's guess), and unbeknownst to Bilbo, went to a secret island in the middle of the lake where he kept his precious, his treasure (so I guess it was a Treasure Island), a very beautiful and wondrous thing. He had a ring, a golden ring. It was given to him by his cousin Deagolovitz many years ago as a present. He wanted to slip his ring on, his precious, and thus become invisible (as it was a magic ring, although not rabbinically kosher perhaps), so as to throttle the uppity gentile Hobbit in the dark.

Suddenly, Bilbo heard Gollum shriek, "My Bar-Mitzvah present! Where isss it? Oy veh, were issss it?"

"What's the matter? Bilbo shouted into the darkness.

Gollum began rambling and groaning, but eventually Bilbo heard, "It mustn't ask, mishugenah. It's losssst, _golem, golem, golem_!"

"Well, so am I!" Bilbo shot back. "And I want to get unlost. You never guessed my last riddle, and you promised!"

"Never guessed! Ss-ss-sss—sss," Gollum hissed, and then his voice turned strange and malignant, "Yessss, what has it got in its pocketses?"

Bilbo felt that, at this point, he had worn out his welcome. "Well, perhaps I'll...ummm...try to find my own way out myself, while you ...errrr...find whatever it is you lost."

"What has it got in its pocketses?" Gollum screamed.

"Thank you so much for the splendid time," Bilbo said edgily as he eased back up the path. "I don't believe I've ever had such an enchanting chat --in a dark cave with a menacing green creature such as yourself."

Bilbo knew the jig was up, and that Gollum meant to make matzoh balls out of him. He ran madly back up the tunnel from whence he came. Gollum's angry hissing came ever closer, and his eyes appeared as green lamps in the darkness. Suddenly, Bilbo's ragged rush to escape ended abruptly as he tripped on a rocky outcrop jutting from the cave floor. He tumbled in a ragged heap on the stone. For no apparent reason save for pushing the plot forward, he felt the ring in his pocket.

"What could that Gollum be missing?" Bilbo mumbled. "Could it be...? Hmmm?"

Bilbo, who unknowingly had slipped the ring on, watched in amazement as Gollum ran right by him. It was if he were…invisible!

"Where did he go?" Gollum cried. "Cursed Bagginses, we hates it! Hates it forever!"


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10: Wargses and Eagles and Bears, oh my!**

Due to the lack of comedic pacing, the scene abruptly switches from Gollum's cave to a green glen with a great stand of pine trees on the far side of the mountain. Bilbo proudly stuck his thumbs in his vest and concluded with an air of satisfaction, "…And that, dear Gandalf and master dwarves, is how I escaped the creature Gollum and the goblins and passed through the secret door."

Gandalf gaped in disbelief at Bilbo and said, "Ummm...but you haven't told us anything."

"I haven't?" Bilbo replied obliviously.

"No, you began at the finish with no start or in-between whatsoever," Thorin said in annoyance.

"Well, you know what they say: _keep it secret, keep it safe,_" Bilbo said with a wink.

"I have heard that before," muttered Thorin.

"Yes, it does sound vaguely familiar," Gandalf agreed, "but I fail to see how it applies..."

But Gandalf's inquiry was cut short, as the baleful sound of howling and growling wargs echoed through the hills.

"What's that?" Bilbo said with a start.

"Our next big-budget action sequence," Gandalf cried as he jumped to his feet. "Run everyone! The wargs are coming!"

"Dash it all!" Thorin cursed mildly in hopes of obtaining a PG rating. "The slopes are too steep hereabouts. We can't outrun them, and we have no weapons. We'll have to climb the trees!"

The panicked escapees frantically scrambled up the fir trees just in the nick of time, for the ferocious wargs -- huge wolfish creatures -- arrived in the clearing. The fierce beasts slathered and snarled around each tree, speaking in their gruff growls.

"What are they saying Gandalf?" Bilbo asked.

"I can't very well translate aloud, Bilbo, or else we may lose our PG rating," Gandalf said with a nod to Thorin. "Needless to say, they are being quite rude." He began cackling loudly and shouted down at the wargs, "How about a little fire, Scarecrow?" Then the ever-resourceful wizard immediately began pitching fiery fir-cones down on the dismayed wargs, which ignited as soon as they hit the beasts' mangy pelts (or, more poetically, _flying fir-fire fearfully flaming foul fur_, as it were).

"Hah! They're on the run!" Bilbo cried with joy. "Those are some hot dogs!" [A drum and snare sound in the distance with a pronounced_ 'ba-dump-bump'_]

But Gandalf did not share the hobbit's enthusiasm: "Ah, but look: the Goblins are here. It appears we are out of the frying pan and into the fire."

"Oh, I like that phrase!" Bilbo said gleefully. "Mind if I use that for the book I'm writing? The working title is 'Bilbo Baggins: A Glorious Retrospective of the Legendary Hero'."

"It might be titled 'Hobbit Hash' if we can't get out of this mess," Gandalf snapped. "Even now the Goblins are fanning the fire below us!"

"Garn, wha' do we 'ave 'eer me boyos?" one of the Goblins bellowed. "A captive audience, it seems! Janet, line up the sopranos and altos. I think some serenadin' is in order 'eer.

"Not more singing!" Gandalf cried glumly.

The goblins encircling the tree held hands and began swaying back and forth in time with the tune as if they were Girl Scouts caroling:

_O Crispy tree, O Crispy tree,  
Burnt Dwarves atop thy branches!  
O Crispy tree, O Crispy tree,  
Burnt Dwarves atop thy branches!  
It reeks of scorching wizard's beard,  
But in the warmth we still find cheer.  
O Crispy tree, O Crispy tree,  
Burnt Dwarves atop thy branches!_

No use to chop to get our crop --  
They're sure to drop before they pop!  
O Crispy tree, O Crispy tree,  
Burnt Dwarves atop thy branches!

One of the goblins began sobbing, "Sniff! That song always chokes me up."

"There, there, Betty," said Janet, "you always was a softy."

"Go way, little boys!" Gandalf shouted from atop the fir tree. "It's not time for your curdled carols! You know what happens to brats who play with fire?"

"I dunno," Janet shouted back, "but I'm sure you'll be a' telling us once you're well-done! Let's give him another, boyos!

_Gandalf roasting on an open fire,  
Dwarf beards singed below their nose.  
Hobbit feet burnt up in the pyre,  
And Orcs await the afterglow --  
Everybody knows --  
That turkey tastes like Hobbit toes,  
Or chicken fingers fried just right.  
'Tater-tots and mushrooms I'm told  
Are the perfect sides for Baggins tonight…_

But Janet the goblin suddenly looked skyward and shrieked, "Hey, look! What to my wond'ring eyes should appear?"

"What, a miniature sleigh and eight tiny reindeer?" Betty replied.

"No, you dolt!" hissed Janet. "it's the Eagles!"

More rapid than coursers the eagles they came, And Gandalf whistled, and shouted, and called them by name; "Now, Landroval! now, Thorondor! now, Meneldor and Gwaihir! On, Miley! on Lindsey! on, Paris and Britney!" To the top of the trees they had answered the call, grabbed them up in their talons, and dashed away all!

ooOOooOOoo

And so the Beagles, great fluffy puppies of the north, saved Bilbo, Gandalf and the Dwarves from the dreadful fire set by the Goblins. These curious canines had sensed goblinish mischief afoot and had come down from their mountain kennels, baying boldly in the moonlight like their noble sires, the hunting hounds of the Vala Oromë...

_*The narrator is handed a slip of paper*_

Strike that last paragraph. It would seem it was the Eagles of the North that were the ones that saved the company from certain disaster; although why the Eagles rather than the Beagles did the saving is up for conjecture. I mean, after all, dogs have always been man's best friend, haven't they? Eagles are raptors, and would just as soon steal your sheep as look at you. Where were the Beagles? Were they hunting elsewhere, or was there perhaps a more sinister plot to keep dogs out of the story? Or cats for that matter! One mention of Huan the Hound in the Silmarillion, and one offhand remark regarding the cats of Queen Beruthiel in Lord of the Rings -- that's it! It's always the Eagles saving Gandalf here and rescuing Gandalf there, aiding in a battle here, swooping to Mount Doom there. No Fido or Tabby in several thousand pages!

_*The narrator is handed another slip of paper*_

Well, it seems I've been sacked. Damn.

_*Cut-scene to one-dimensional Eagle puppets carrying cardboard dwarves skyward against a static blue background set*_

"Thank you very much for the ride!" Bilbo shouted and waved as the birds flew off. "I'd always heard that Beagles were noble creatures!"

"Eagles," Gandalf corrected.

"Right," Bilbo said. "Ummm...where are we at present?"

"We are at the Carrock," Gandalf answered.

"Carrot?" Bilbo muttered.

"No, Carrock," Gandalf replied more firmly.

"And what is a Carrock, exactly?" Bilbo asked.

"It is what he calls it," Gandalf said nonchalantly.

"He who?"

"He who named the Carrock. It is what he calls such things."

"Whom?"

"Whom?"

"Yes, whom? The person who named the Carrock."

"That's right."

"What's right?"

"He is the person who named the Carrock."

"Yes, but who is he?"

"I just told you."

By now, Bilbo was becoming very annoyed. "Look, I don't want to get caught up in an Abbott and Costello comedy routine! Who is he?"

"Bilbo, I shan't tell you anything further if you're not going to listen," Gandalf said with pronounced grumpiness.

Bilbo bit his lip and said very slowly, "Alright…let's try this again…this is the Carrock."

"Yes."

"And he who named the Carrock a Carrock did so because that is what he calls such things."

"Precisely!"

"And what is his name, this person who calls Carrocks a Carrock?"

"Beorn."

"A-HA!" Bilbo shouted. "And who is he?"

"He is the person who named the Carrock."

Bilbo sighed in exasperation, "I probably won't be getting anything further out of you, will I?"

"Most likely not."

"Right then, off we go."

But Gandalf stopped Bilbo short and said to the whole company, "Ah, but before we go, I must warn you all, Beorn is not a man to be trifled with. When we reach his home, perhaps it would be better if I introduced you in pairs rather than all at once.

"But that could take all night!" Thorin groaned.

Gandalf shrugged and stated matter-of-factly, "It is better than having your limbs ripped off and being pummeled about the head and neck with your arm or leg."

"Yes, yes...I suppose you have a point there," Thorin said hesitantly, "but what sort of a man would do such a thing?"

Gandalf thought for a moment, and then answered, "Well, I've heard tell that when he is riled Beorn becomes a giant tree sloth."

"A tree sloth?" Thorin said in amazement. "They're rather lazy and moss-covered aren't they? Not the type of creatures to be ripping limbs off."

"No…no, you're right," Gandalf mumbled in embarrassment. "Perhaps it was a large badger --or a menacing aardvark."

"Yes, they do get antsy, I suppose," Bilbo sniggered.

Bombur peered about in evident apprehension, and whispered fearfully, "I've 'eard tell the squirrels in these parts are quite nasty. Black as coal, they are, and go right after your nuts."

"No wait, I have it!" Gandalf shouted (totally ignoring the fat dwarf). "Beorn turns into a great bear and roams the land at night."

Bilbo began to fidget and said nervously, "Ummm...perhaps we should just skip going to Beorn's house altogether then."

"Oh, stop fidgeting!" Gandalf growled and smacked Bilbo on the top of his head. "Beorn is a very kindly man. It's just that sometimes he gets a bit testy. So don't aggravate him."

"Or else he'll rip my limbs off and pummel me about the head and neck with my arm or leg?" Bilbo squeaked.

Gandalf beamed proudly at his puny protégé. "See? You are very bright when you actually listen."

Hello, Narrator number three here! Yep, Narrator the Third, or just plain Narrator #3. I am actually quite excited to be narrating this tale for you, as it is my first time doing omniscient third person narration work. Well, there was that brief bit I did back in school as God in _The Ten Commandments_. "LET MY PEOPLE GO!" Ha-ha! Good times, good times! Hmmm? What? Oh yes, sorry. Tune in next week as Bilbo and company visit Beorn's house. I am rather looking forward to seeing Bilbo aggravating Beorn and getting his limbs torn off, aren't you?


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11: Queer Lodgings (and no, it's not a San Francisco Bath House)**

The company of travelers left the Carrock overlooking the River Running -- or the River Anduin, if you prefer to be a scholarly snot about it -- and headed for the land of the Beornings. An eccentric clan of skin-changers ('changing skin' as in transmogrifying, not in the artificial Botox and celluloid Hollywoodish sense), the Beornings were said to have descended from the Edain, the first great Houses of Men in the Olden Days, when men were Men, Viagra was unnecessary, and women walked with bowed legs and crooked smiles. The dwarves and Bilbo passed through huge fields of flowers with great droning bees the size of swallows (unladen swallows, of course, as bees did not yet have the technology to crack coconut shells, nor dorsal feathers with which they could affix strands of creeper to carry them). Needless to say, the mammoth hovering insects proved troublesome to the travelers, and particularly to Dumplin, whose bright pink hood attracted swarms of amorous bees intent on pollinating her lilac-scented beard.

Eventually, they came to a grove of ancient oak (symbolic of enchantment in those days), and beyond, a rough thorn hedge with a lamppost, by which a faun with a scarf and umbrella had clumsily dropped a handful of parcels wrapped in brown paper. No, wait…I meant to say there was a huge gate, and beyond a series of thatched roof buildings and a long house modeled after Heorot, the mead hall of Beowulf (again, for the edification of you Tolkien snobs).

"Now, we'll carry out my plan," whispered Gandalf, "we go in two by two at intervals of every five minutes or so; and Bombur, you go in last as you are fat enough for two."

Bombur grimaced at the implication. "Obesity should not be mocked," he bristled as he munched on a muffin. "It's a disease which impairs the individual both physically and socially." But he soon lost his train of thought, engrossed as he was in polishing off a second, and then third muffin; meanwhile, Gandalf and Bilbo had already passed through the gate.

As Gandalf and Bilbo entered into the courtyard, they noticed several horses with long faces (they weren't sad, really, I was speaking in an equine sense) and intelligent looks. These quickly galloped off in the wake of the strangers. "Ah, they'll be announcing our arrival," Gandalf said.

They were expecting to meet a huge black-bearded man carrying a great axe large enough to split hares or hobbits; however, in his stead came an odd little man with a bright blue jacket and yellow boots dancing manically about and singing merrily to himself:

"Hey dol, merry dol, the wind is in the willows..."

"Excuse me, Tom," Gandalf said in surprise at recognizing the strange capering figure.

"Goldberry's got a bottom like a set of silken pillows..."

"Ummm, Mr. Bombadil?"

"I often like to think on them to help regain my wits... "

"Errrr...hello?"

"They're almost as pleasant to ponder as her pair of perky... "

"TOM BOMBADIL!"

Bombadil, finally noticing he had visitors, cocked a bushy eyebrow and said, "Hey there! Ho, there! What you be a-doing here while I'm a-singing about me main squeeze-o?"

"Ummm..." Gandalf sputtered hesitantly, "Hello…Tom, I wasn't expecting to see you here! We have come from the Misty Mountains, where we were attacked by goblins."

Bombadil shrugged. "Naught worse than that, eh? I had an orc infestation back in the Old Forest once. Pesky little critters, them orcses. Had a couple that done got eaten by Old Man Willow. Must've been tasty, but I'm not one for dark meat."

"Well, I wouldn't know…" Gandalf mumbled.

"'Old Man Willow', I said, 'what be you a-chewing? Spit out them nasty orcses or it'll be your own undoing!'

"Interesting, but..."

"'Spit them out this instant, 'tis not merely a suggestion'…

"Well, see..."

"'Cos' I'm Jolly Tom Bombadil, come to aid in your digestion!'"

"Yes, thanks for the fascinating reminiscence," the annoyed Gandalf grumbled, "but where is Beorn?"

But Tom started doing a pirouette and singing, "Tom Bombadil-o, such a fashionable feller: blue coat, brown beard and boots colored yeller!"

Bilbo was aghast. "Yes, rather like Santa Claus on hallucinogens," he whispered to Gandalf.

Tom heard the hobbit's rather unflattering summation, and replied, "Tom pays no attention to trends. Tom was here before the first squirrel dropping. Tom is older than Cirdan's prostate gland!"

"Yes, and Tom talks in third person like an NBA star," Gandalf snapped. "I am not interested in your fashion...sense, where is Beo…"

"Old Tom Bombadil is a merry fellow; bright blue his jacket is, and his boots are yellow!"

"Ah yes, we've established that..."

"Eh, what?" Bombadil said as he did a somersault. "I didn't quite hear you. Nay, I was singing."

"Yes, but I need to know where Beorn is..."

Yet Tom kept on singing: "Old Tom don't behave quite the way he oughter, ever since he's gone and knocked up the River daughter...

"Knocked up?" Gandalf gasped with some surprise. "You…you have children?"

"Hey-dol merry-dol, we bred like bawdy rabbits; hence there came the race as known as Tom's naughty Habbits!"

"Habbits?" Gandalf said with eyes wide. "Are you implying that Hobbits...?"

"They're merry, write bad poetry and are prone to do a jig... "

"Well, yes."

"They're short on mannish stature and they eat like wee li'l pigs..."

"I suppose..."

"They're known to be good gardeners and farmers in the wheat..."

"Ummm..."

"But mostly they dress badly, and have hairy little feet..."

Now Bilbo was intrigued, considering he might be a distant relation of Tom. "Hairy feet? Do you have hairy feet, Mr. Bombadil?"

"Me?" Bombadil replied indignantly. "No, nay, never! Tom aint got no hairy feet! He wears his yellow bootses so his toes stay smellin' sweet!"

Bilbo was at a loss. "Then who…?"

Tom motioned the hobbit closer and whispered, "It's Goldberry -- she's French."

Bilbo frowned in confusion. "I don't see what that has to do with..."

But Tom sang anew, "Goldberry, Goldberry, merry yellow berry-o! Hey! Come merry-dol! Her feet are rather hairy-o!"

Gandalf rolled his eyes, and shouted in desperation, "This isn't Middle-earth! Come now, where's Mad Hatter and the March Hare?"

"Tom don't quite know those folks; but then, I'm not from around these here parts."

"Precisely!" Gandalf shouted. "Now, why are you here, and where is Beorn?"

"Well, no need to get all grumpy, dear Gandalf," Bombadil said as he passed a wink to Bilbo. "Beorn and I are in the same condo association. This is a time-share."

"Time-share?" Gandalf blurted.

"Yes!" Tom said, clapping his hands excitedly. "We spend the summer months here, and Beorn lives at our house in the Old Forest. It works out wonderfully, except Beorn sheds something awful. It takes Goldberry weeks to sweep out the bear hair."

"Beorn…is not here?" Gandalf sighed in a despairing tone.

But Tom was by now off on a new tangent. "Hey dol! Ho dol! Old Tom has got to run. Supper's on the table and Goldberry's got warm buns!"

"A double entendre, I am sure," Gandalf grumbled.

"Surely," Bombadil replied cheerfully, "I told you she was French!"

"Yes, I suppose you did...and don't call me Shirley," Gandalf growled in exasperation.

And so Gandalf's plan for the dwarves to start arriving at Beorn's door at staggered intervals proved unnecessary, as Bombadil didn't even notice they had come in. But they all sat around the kitchen table while Goldberry, whose buns were indeed well stacked, served them all sorts of delicacies. This did not sit well with the regular wait staff (horses and sheep mostly), who proved to be quite rude to the dwarvish intruders.

"More cakes," Balin bellowed.

"And more ale," Gloin growled.

"And more cheese, please," Thorin thaid.

"Get it yourself, B-a-a-a-h-stards," a sheep grouched.


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12: In which Narrator #1 Escapes Confinement and Defeats the Dreaded Usurpers**

The scene in the cramped study was one of utter chaos. Light jaggedly streamed through ripped shades lolling haphazardly from a broken curtain rod, revealing what appeared to be the battered remnants of a violent altercation. Books lay strewn about, tables were overturned, and the room was irremediably disheveled and desperately in need of dusting. Imagine if there had actually been a fight here! Someone could have tripped over carelessly misplaced bric-a-brac and seriously injured himself!

Narrator #1 giggled insanely and smacked narrator #3 on the top of his head as the unfortunate hostage sat bound and gagged near the desk. "What's the matter," Narrator #1 typed, "cat got your tongue?" He cackled triumphantly and began pecking with manic speed on the keyboard, muttering over and over, "All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy."

Pausing momentarily, he shot an evil glance at his editor, who was tied to a chair in the far corner of the messy study. "Oh, and I will not be double-spacing, nor spell-checking the text, m'dear," he said with a wink. "I have decided to do the rest of the story in a Gertrude Stein, stream-of-consciousness style. I may even forego capitalization altogether in the mode of ee cummings."

The editor squirmed in obvious discomfort, but the ropes bound him most cruelly. All that could he could manage was a muffled whimper from beneath his gag. This amused Narrator #1 immensely, and he added, "Or perhaps I'll just opt to write 'The Hobbit' in the manner of James Joyce."

The editor's eyes grew wide and he began shaking his head violently, followed by a string of curses that were fortunately muted by the gag. Just as the editor began to calm down, Narrator #1 began taunting him again, "I have decided to give the story a more Joycean title: 'Fingolfin's Wake' -- what do you think? We won't require a plot per se, nor will we need characters, or at least characters that have any continuity from one page to the next: just a potpourri of allusions, metaphors, multi-level puns, neologisms, dangling participles and Freudian dream sequences. No one will understand a thing we're talking about; therefore, we shall sound deep! I have even written a Feanorian first sentence for our new epic: _'And we are, are we, swoping priggily the prof's Middangeard, barrowing Mahtan's spark as the espiritu flamula did on a once ago.'_ "

By now, the editor was sobbing uncontrollably. Narrator #1 shrugged and sighed, "Perhaps you are right, it is far too intense in a literary sense for the lighthearted 'Hobbit'; it would work better with 'The Silmarillion'."

Narrator #1 lit a cigarette and nonchalantly tapped ashes in Narrator #3's hair. Then, in a moment of pique, Narrator #1 pointed an accusative finger at his editor and shouted, "And we'll have no more of this narrative-revolving-door scenario! It is all becoming rather unbelievable, don't you think? Whoever heard of an unbelievable fantasy, eh? It just isn't done! I'll finish this story, even if it kills you!"

Without further ado, and with a captive audience, the Once and Future Narrator settled back in his worn leather office chair and recommenced the tale.

ooOOooOOoo

And so, much to the animal servants' chagrin, the dwarves stayed in Beorn's time-share for several days, eating up great amounts of honey, butter, biscuits, cheeses, loaves of bread, grapes, cauliflower, artichokes, beans, bananas, kiwis, coconuts, houseplants, cakes, cookies, soap, iguanas, lard, tallow (yes, even the candles were fair game), and just as they were about to consume the horse and sheep waiters, Gandalf stood up in the middle of dinner and announced, "This has become definitely silly, even for a fantasy! In lieu of this continued lunacy, I shall be leaving you on the morrow."

The dwarves and Bilbo were all mortified and speechless (except for Bombur belching loudly). They continued eating their meal in sullen silence (again, except for Bombur belching loudly). When the sun rose the next morning, Gandalf gathered up his pack and walked out onto the veranda. Standing in a long line were the dwarves and Bilbo patiently waiting for the wizard. Gandalf looked at all the sad dwarven faces pouting pitifully with puffed and quivering lower lips, and mumbled in an exasperated tone, "All right, all right, no more puppy dog looks, please! I shall accompany you as far as the eaves of Mirkwood, but no further! I am, after all, a wizard of some repute. I just won't do for my reputation to be seen with you silly little folk…" He suddenly realized that Bombadil was listening as well, and added with a bow, "…save for our diminutive host, of course."

But Bombadil wasn't actually listening, he was lost deep in thought, trying to figure out more 'Hey dol, merry dol' rhymes for Goldberry's various body parts. Realizing this, Gandalf in abject futility threw his hands in the air and stalked off towards Mirkwood, the vast forest of Rhovanion, once called Greenwood the Great, soon to be rechristened Eryn Lasgalen…"

"That'll be quite enough of that silliness," Gandalf said with a scowl.

Ah, right. It feels good to be back! Errr…now where was I? Ah, yes! The grateful dwarves followed Gandalf in a nor' easterly direction, keeping the mountains in the distance to their left. They remained silent for most of the first day of travel (except for Bombur belching loudly), and much of the next, for fear of alerting the dread goblinish choirs that might be lurking -- ever ready to unleash their haggard harmonies -- in the shadows. As the light faded on the third night out, Bilbo swore he perceived a giant tree sloth lazily plodding some distance behind them. But when he mentioned this to Gandalf, the wizard shushed him irritably, "Bilbo, stop talking nonsense!"

At last, they reached the forest fence, and the immense gaping maw of Mirkwood loomed before them, ready to engulf wayward travelers like a rabid aardvark (but with porcupine quills as a metaphor for bristling trees) would inhale unexpecting ants. The dwarves meekly gazed inside the wicked wood from a safe distance, unwilling to go any further. "Well, that's it for me, then!" Gandalf said cheerfully. "Good luck on your adventure; I may stop by from time to time just to see how you are progressing."

Gandalf suddenly found all thirteen dwarves and the hobbit hugging him fearfully about his waist. "Now, now, tsk, tsk," Gandalf said in a motherly tone, trying desperately to peel off the pathetically clinging dwarves, "is this any way for big, brave dwarves to behave? What would the elves say?"

"I don't care!" Thorin blubbered. "We don't wanna go in the dark forest!"

Gandalf bit his lip and muttered an ancient Maiaric curse in Quenyan. Thinking quickly, he shouted excitedly, "Look, isn't that Galadriel skinny dipping over there?"

The dwarves' sudden lapse of attention was all the wizard needed. In a twinkling, Gandalf had leapt upon his horse and was madly galloping back in the direction of Beorn's time-share. He chuckled as he passed out of sight, and with a measure of satisfaction said, "Silly dwarves, the Galadriel bit gets 'em every time!"


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13: Would They March into the Woody Murk of Mirkwood?**

Gandalf was gone, Bilbo was bewildered and the dwarves were debating whether or not it would be better just to go around the forest rather than through it.

"We could go north, above Mirkwood, take a quick right at the Grey Mountains, and then another quick right down to Laketown," Balin said.

"Those 'quick' rights you are talking about equal two hundred miles at least," Thorin grumbled. "Besides, Gandalf warned us that the Goblins up that a' way are as thick as ticks on a boar's bare bottom."

"He said _that_?" Bilbo said with a grimace.

"Well, yes…no…I was paraphrasing," Thorin replied irritably, as he was rather proud of his metaphors (or similes, he was never sure which).

"Perhaps we could just go south," Gloin said hopefully. "It'll be a much longer walk, but at least we'll be warmer!"

Thorin chewed the end of his beard (a nervous affectation he had cultured since childhood). Finally, he spit out some loose hair and sighed, "No, that won't do either. It seems there's a sorcerous necrophile in a tower down that a' way."

"You mean a sorcerous _necromancer_," Balin corrected him.

"Well, he does _something_ unsavory with the dead; whether or not he gives them flowers and candy is neither here nor there," Thorin said with a shudder.

Bilbo had been listening to this dwarvish nonsense ever since Gandalf left, and he was getting quite anxious. Well, I guess this is a job for a sensible hobbit, he thought to himself; I have to speak up now or else we'll be stuck here forever. Clearing his throat to get the dwarves' attention, he said aloud, "Perhaps we should just go home. I mean, really, if we are too scared to walk through a forest without an endless debate, how will we manage to deal with a dragon?"

There was a prolonged silence, which suited Bilbo fine, as he more than half wanted to go home, and the other half – the Tookish adventuring half – was by now half agreeing with the staid and unadventurous Baggins half, which is just a half-assed way of saying that both halves wholly agreed on heading home.

"You are right, Bilbo," Balin said at last, bowing his head in shame, "talk is cheap at half the price, and half of nothing is still nothing."

"Yes, we have been going about this half-heartedly," a chagrined Thorin agreed. "I have half a mind to take Master Baggins up on his request." Thorin hesitated and Bilbo's heart lifted in expectation, but then Thorin continued, "Half a minute! Oh, Master Baggins, you are a wily codger for a half-pint! But your reverse psychology has had its intended effect."

"It has?" Bilbo squeaked.

"Certainly, we shall head through the forest."

"But I…"

"Now, now, no false modesty," Thorin said with a pronounced slap on Bilbo's back, "it was a brave thing you did in speaking up and showing us the error in our ways."

"No, but you see…"

But Bilbo's half-protestations fell on deaf ears. "Now they listen to me!" he groaned as he picked up his pack and scrambled after the dwarves, who by now were already stalking warily into the sepulchral gloaming of Mirkwood.

Now, you may not be aware of it, but there are two types of forests. One is the Ansel Adams, photogenic kind: beaming with sun-dappled glades, venerable mossy boles lazily shaded by drowsing green drapery, stately avenues of verdure with vaulted arches of vibrantly majestic trees reaching to the heavens in a spiraling, expansive and reverent effort to touch the face of god. Unfortunately, Mirkwood was the other sort: it was dark during the day, and pitch black at night; the sun, when it did manage to poke through the near-impenetrable canopy, offered a keyhole-size spit of light, which merely emphasized the overawing gloom that permeated the place; and then there were the bugs -- big bugs, little bugs, bugs that crawled on rocks, fat bugs, skinny bugs, even bugs that mocked other bugs – all black, all loathsome, and all keenly intimate with Bilbo and the dwarves.

"And the black squirrels, don't forget them pesky blighters!" Bombur piped in.

Yes, there were also black squirrels.

"I've been keepin' a close eye on me nuts," Bombur added.

The narrator considered this a prime segue for an indecent joke, but thought better of it. Instead, he decided to take the high road and further describe the eerie night hours inside the forest. It became cruelly cold and lighting fires proved more bothersome than they were worth, as the dwarves found themselves engulfed by thousands of black-and-grey moths and flitting bats that delighted in getting themselves tangled in the dwarves' coarse hair. Eventually, after a few laborious days of travel, they came upon a stream or river, with the far shore barely discernible in the preternatural darkness.

"I think I see a boat on the other side." Bilbo said.

"Maybe we should swim over and bring it back," Dwalin offered.

Thorin bit his lip and glared at his none-too-bright companion. "No, Gandalf told us not to go anywhere near the water in the forest, nor drink it. It is poisonous, I guess."

But foggy Dwalin could not be so easily dissuaded, and decided to take a different tack. "Well, then maybe we should build a bridge and bring the boat back that way."

The other dwarves, who all had an inherent love of construction and architecture, began enthusiastically debating the merits of various bridge structures. A pontoon bridge was immediately rejected as not aesthetically pleasing, and most of the dwarves considered either a cantilever or suspension bridge far too industrial looking. The general consensus was that an arched bridge of stone would be best both intrinsically and artistically.

"….And we can build some guard houses and shops along the sides, like the Ponte Vecchio in Florence," Dwalin said, clapping excitedly.

"What, a closed spandrel segmental arch bridge?" Balin replied dubiously. "I was thinking of something more in the Palladian style."

All the while, it had been quite clear to Bilbo that the dwarves had lost their minds. "Ummm…why don't we just use a rope, lasso the boat, and drag it over to this side?"

The dwarves begrudgingly agreed that Bilbo's suggestion was perhaps the best solution in the interest of time, and decided to table the discussion until Dwalin finished the blueprints and Balin constructed a scale model. In the meantime, and after several abortive attempts, they did manage to rope the boat and pull it successfully to the lee shore. Thorin decided that he should row across first, joined by Bilbo and Balin, and the others would follow in groups of four, with Dwalin and Bombur going last in consideration of Bombur's ponderous girth.

"Always last!" Bombur lamented. "Why do I 'ave to be last again?"

"Because you are fat and require the lightest load," Thorin snapped.

The sullen Bombur seemed to acquiesce, but grumbled something about filing a discrimination lawsuit through the American Civil Liberties Union; however, no one took him seriously, as the United States would not be founded for another three or four ages. In any case, the crossing went quite well until Bombur, still seething over Thorin's weighty rebuke, tried to take cuts in line before Bifur and Bofur, two of the dwarves with limited speaking roles. Gloin, the union steward of the DWLSR, immediately took offense and pushed Bombur into the murky waters. After a strenuous effort and much unflattering name-calling, all of the dwarves made it the other side, and Bombur was fished out of the water, soaking and unconscious. To the dwarves' dismay, the fat dwarf could not be roused. Dumplin cheerfully volunteered to give the Bombur mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, but since he was not drowned and seemingly only in a deep sleep, that suggestion seemed unnecessarily intimate.

"Well, what do we do now?" Balin groused. "Bombur won't get up, and I'm starving." The other dwarves nodded hungrily, bemoaning the fact that the boat, along with all their provisions, had sunk while they were busy rescuing the fat dwarf.

"Bombur would be just too heavy to carry, I should think," Bilbo opined, gazing down at the ponderous pile of dwarven blubber.

"Yes, he is too fat," Thorin agreed. "All that fat…he is like a big, meaty walrus, isn't he?"

"It is said that the Eskimo culture prizes walrus meat," Bofur said thoughtfully, using up his allotted dialogue for the balance of the story.

"So…" Dwalin considered dimly, "walrus is edible?"

"And we are starving?" Balin added rhetorically.

The dwarves peered at each other sheepishly out of the corner of their eyes, rather too abashed to discuss the implications and the delectable nature of walrus.

"I'll go start the fire," Balin said at last.

"Right, I'll go rustle up some mushrooms and herbs," Gloin replied.

Bilbo's tummy rumbled in spite of any hobbitish reservations he had against violating certain societal taboos. But then he realized he was a hobbit and not a dwarf; so such concern was unfounded, at least in this specific instance, as hungry as he was.


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter Fourteen: Arachnophobia and Legolust**

And so, having feasted on the bloated body of Bombur, the satiated dwarves and Bilbo stripped the remaining flesh off their unfortunate comrade's bones, then dried and smoked it over a fire, making a sort of dwarf jerky (or 'Bombur Bites' as they affectionately named it)…

"Hey, that aint the least bit amusin'!" Bombur growled as he forcibly roused himself from his stupor.

Oh, you're awake! Sorry about that. I was merely heightening the tension by adding this subplot -- putting a more modern spin on the tale, you know. Cannibalism is the next big thing in novelization -- after angsty, teenage vampires, of course.

"I don't give a vampire's pallid patoot!" Bombur bellowed. "You had me fricasseed and were making Bombur bits out of the leftovers!"

That's 'Bombur Bites', not bits.

"Gendarme mother fuddled bass tarp! Slagging pork bellied ice pole! Fugue king jack mashed dirk head! I don't give a…a…a...ahhh…"

But just when it seemed that Bombur had made a miraculous recovery -- at the very moment he was rising angrily from the cold, cold ground -- fate dealt the fat dwarf an unexpected parry and thrust. For, when Bombur rose spitting and swearing, he found himself unable to curse further. He yawned and then yawned even more deeply, batted his eyes wearily and tumbled back to the ground in a lifeless lump. The narrator had flexed his authoritative muscle and put the colorfully abusive dwarf back to sleep. In retrospect, there is something to be said for narrative omniscience.

"Damn, it looks like we'll have to carry him after all," Gloin grumbled. "I'll have to check the union's General Duty Clause to see if this represents excessive lifting in the work place. It may be hazardous"

"At least we might get some overtime," Bifur said hopefully.

"Quit your whining, you laggards!" Thorin barked. "We have to get a move on if we are ever going to reach the next big-budget special effects sequence. It's bad enough that the original chapter, 'Flies and Spiders', had to be split into three parts for the sake of this parody."

At that precise moment, the dwarves heard laughter and singing, and deeper in the forest they perceived a merry blaze like hundreds of torches glowing invitingly in the bleak gloom. Huffing and puffing, desperately dragging Bombur along, the dwarves and Bilbo came to a glen where there was a magnificent feast and regally clad woodland folks sitting about a sumptuously laid table. But as soon as the dwarves stepped into the circle of light, POOF! everything vanished. Suddenly, the light appeared a few hundred yards off, and the desperate dwarves ran in that direction. Once again, they came upon the festive and brightly lit supper, and yet again, POOF! This happened several times, and it got to the point where dwarves were running about helter-skelter every which way, and poor Bilbo had gotten lost in the general confusion. He heard dwarves calling for him in several directions, but the sound of their voices seemed to be getting farther and farther away. Eventually, Bilbo heard distant cries of "Help! Help!"

"Well, this is another fine mess you've gotten us into," Bilbo said with Hardyesque perturbance. "One would think these perils are scripted for the sake of some fan-fiction website!" He paused for a second to wipe off something sticky and strand-like that clung stubbornly to his face. "And speaking of web sights…" he muttered, and then went off in search of the wayward dwarves.

**And now for something completely different…**

**There stood the sinewy figure of Legolas, Prince of Mirkwood, with his lustrous platinum locks teasingly tousled by the envious Aeolian wind. His hair -- ah, that silken hair! What body, what bounce! It was parted precisely down the middle with a beaded braid encircling his head like a golden hirsute tiara, and below, tumbling down like gossamer wings on either side, his coif framed the dreamily chiseled features of a Sindarin Adonis. _Sigh_. But he is unfortunately under contractual obligation for _'Pirates of the Caribbean V: One More Sad Attempt at Milking the Franchise Dry'_, and will not be appearing in this production.**

"No!" shrieked Dumplin, as his…her…hopes were dashed at last. But the screams of the sexually ambiguous dwarf were muffled as the webs of a great, bulbous spider coiled insidiously about his…her…beribboned beard and pouty lips. It was this last forlorn call that guided Bilbo to the dreaded place where the prisoners lay.

All about the glen spread a sinister shadow, an unlight within the gloom of the forest, as if Night incarnate chose this hollow as its dark den. Bilbo perceived that innumerable webs slung haphazardly to and fro from tree to tree caused the blackness, repelling what little light the wan sun could filter through the dense foliage. The frightened hobbit also espied the hideous forms of many spiders lurking about in the trees or scuttling their bloated bodies skittishly along the forest floor. These fiendish creatures had clusters of eyes gleaming preternaturally in the black, and great, slathering fangs that made a clicking sound whenever the pincers closed. Bilbo was, for a time, mesmerized by the percussive rhythm of the plinking pincers, which had a beat like _La Cucaracha_: click-click-click-click-CLICK, click-click-click-click-CLICK, click-click-click-click-CLICK…

Bilbo shook himself from this rather surreal reverie just in time, for a sneaking spider had stealthily insinuated itself right above our hapless hero, and was even now lowering its massive, oozing stinger for a fatal stab. But Bilbo deftly sidestepped the flailing creature and cut off its horny tail with a swipe of Sting, the blade Gandalf had given him in the troll's cave. Surprised and wounded, the spider hissed and whirled about on its ropelike strand in the manic manner of an arachnidan piñata, then came crashing to the ground. With a deft jab that would have made Douglas Fairbanks (Senior or Junior) proud, Bilbo dispatched the beast with his blade before it could call out to its tarantismic partners in crime.

"Well, it seems they can see me much better than I can see them," Bilbo huffed breathlessly, "I think perhaps I shall even the score." So saying, he placed the Ring he had found in Gollum's lair on his finger and disappeared. "Now," he said with some satisfaction, "I can hardly see them, but they shan't see me at all!"

Holding his breath and walking nearly tiptoed, Bilbo snuck through the dense undergrowth without a sound, slipping closer, ever closer, to the heart of the haunted hollow, and the dark demesne of the giant spiders. As he approached, Bilbo espied the captive dwarves suspended in cobwebbed condoms that pulsed with the still twitching bodies buried within. The great, hairy spiders teased and prodded the webbed cocoons and grumbled and groused in their barbaric creaking tongue -- well, not tongue, actually, as spiders have none – suffice it to say they spoke with a metallic and reedy hiss:

"I get the fat one! I get the fat one!" one of the smaller spiders clicked ebulliently.

Now, now, Junior," replied another, evidently the mother, "you must watch out for your cholesterol intake."

"Oh, but he's so juicy!" the first whined.

"No, Junior! I have talked to you and talked to you until I am blue in the carapace, and I am done talking to you about this!"

The broodling brooded, then sulkily spat, "I never get to have any fun – not since you ate dad!"

The black widow's cephalothorax twitched in agitation, and one of her frontal pedipalps tapped the ground. "Oh, now that was a right cruel thing to say, Junior. You know that eating your father was strictly an instinctual behavior."

"I wish I was never hatched!"

"That's it, that's IT!" the widow howled. "Go to your orb!"

While the spiders digressed thusly, Bilbo saw his chance. Picking up several stones from a nearby dried-up river bed, he began chucking them at the spiders with deadly accuracy (in addition to inventing golf, Hobbits were also the originators of the salad fork, which has nothing to do with the previous sentence). The stones whizzed and whined at the spiders, cutting their webs, piercing their malphigian tubules, blinding their ocelli, and killing quite a number of the unsuspecting arthropods. Of course, the spiders became quite riled and forgot the dwarves altogether. Although they could not see their tormentor, the angry arachnids had a fair idea in which direction the assault was coming from, and launched their webs frenetically, slinging themselves from tree to tree with a bit of special effects work lifted directly from a Sam Raimi film starring a notable Marvel Comic superhero. But Bilbo stayed one step ahead of them, dodging from one spot to the next, all the while singing (naturally, what else would one do when being chased by monstrous spiders?):

_Fat old hairy insect, Minerva's ire you dread --  
She seized Arachne's spindle and smacked it on your head!  
Lazy Tomnoddy, against the gods presumed --  
Attercop, Attercop, now an egg sac for a womb!_

As you all know, spiders positively despise bad poetry, but Bilbo's bit of poesy was beyond the pale, even for doggerel. It was bad enough that the contemptible hobbit referred to spiders as insects, but the impertinent allusion to Greco-Roman mythology and the Old and Middle-English epithets Tomnoddy (a 'stupid or foolish person' according to the OED) and Attercop ( an archaic word for 'spider' -- in modern Norwegian it is 'edderkopp') drove the spiders to a seething frenzy, which was Bilbo's intention. Now all of the spiders were chasing him, and none were left to guard the despairing dwarves. But still Bilbo led them on a wild goose…errr…spider chase, lobbing stones and lofting stilted stanzas:

_Slob of a cob, you lob so lazy --  
Charlotte's Web was disjointed and crazy!  
A literary mess at the Animal Farm --  
Spinning wordy threads for a terrible yarn!_

The spiders sputtered and spat at Bilbo's Chaucerian imputations ('lob' and 'cob' being derivations of 'loppe' and 'coppe', of course), but to slander the spiders' national epic was an insult too grave to bear. But their mindless rage took them further and further away from their supper, and the wily little hobbit had circled around them and hurriedly freed the dwarves before the spiders had discovered that they had been trapped by the fly, and in their own parlor!

"O, what wicked webs they weave!" Balin muttered as Bilbo cut his sticky bonds.

"A little less alliteration and a bit more…ummm…mobilization," Bilbo said hesitantly, at a loss for a clever turn-of-a-phrase.


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter Fifteen: Finally Finished With Damnable Mirkwood**

Call me Ishmael. Some years ago - never mind how long precisely - having little or no money in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me on shore, I thought I would sail about a little and see the watery part of the world. It is a way I have of driving off the spleen, and regulating the circulation. Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people's hats off - then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can.

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to heaven, we were all going direct the other way - in short, the period was so far like the present period, that some of its noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for good or for evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only.

Every Who Down in Who-ville Liked Christmas a lot, but the Grinch, who lived just north of Who-ville, did NOT! The Grinch hated Christmas! The whole Christmas season! Now, please don't ask why. No one quite knows the reason. It could be his head wasn't screwed on just right. It could be, perhaps, that his shoes were too tight. But I think that the most likely reason of all may have been that his heart was two sizes too small.

The narrator caught himself meandering again. He had been off his medication for about a month now, and except for the occasional bit of daydreaming, he hadn't had any psychotic episodes -- or at least any that were discernible. He was quite proud of this accomplishment, and was convinced the doctors were wrong in prescribing him such heavy doses of Thorazine. Everything was back to normal, and with his mind unhampered by the debilitating effects of the drug, he found himself free of paranoia. In addition, it had been nearly a week since his captive editor and Narrator #3 had attempted to speak -- or move, for that matter -- leaving Narrator #1 with the sneaking suspicion they were silently plotting against him. Or perhaps it was merely that he had neglected to feed them. In any case, they were up to no good, and he would deal with them soon, as they were really beginning to stink. But for now, of course, he had to resume the narrative, which he had neglected so terribly with his dawdling and fitful flights of fancy. Now, where were we? Ah, yes…

After such a harrowing and arduous special effects scene, Bilbo and the dwarves found themselves utterly exhausted. After narrowly escaping the returning spiders, the errant travelers had run blindly through the forest for some time, and at last collapsed, their fatigue overwhelming any further concern for attacking arachnids. As they lolled and nodded huddled shivering in a hidden hollow, the comrades took stock of their precarious position. With the timely assistance of Dwalin's right hand, Balin counted and recounted the group and still came up one short.

"Thirteen again," Balin sighed sadly. "It seems we're missing somebody."

"Maybe if you recounted using me other hand," Dwalin replied while looking at his fingers, hoping that perhaps he had one extra on his left hand.

"No, I don't think that'll help," Balin countered. "Who is missing?"

"Well, I am here," the miserable Bombur grunted, wishing the narrator would put him back to sleep.

"I am too, I think" Dwalin added, now uncertain if he were lost or not.

"Well, who isn't here that should be?" Bilbo said with some annoyance. This was, of course, the wrong question to ask, as the dwarves all began to shout out, "I'm here", which did nothing to resolve the problem.

While Bilbo and the dwarves were vainly attempting to figure out who of their number was missing, the one misplaced dwarf (and Bilbo and the others were almost certain that it was a dwarf that was missing) stood as a prisoner before the ElvenKing of Mirkwood.

"Våt vere yøu duin een my vørest?" the ElvenKing grumbled in a thick, vaguely Scandinavian accent (for, as we all know, Tolkien drew heavily from Norse, or more precisely, Icelandic sources).

"Starving," Thorin (for he was the missing dwarf!) spat angrily.

"Vell, dåt døn't seem like møøch øv ån ænswer," the ElvenKing replied incredulously. "Vhy døn't ve try dis ågain, eh? Vat vere you duin bøtherink my vølks in der vørest?"

"We were starving," Thorin answered indignantly.

"I døn't tink dis ees gettink us ænyvheres," the ElvenKing sighed. "Now, I'm a' gøink to ask yøu a kvestion, and yøu åre a' gøink to ænswer dat kvestion mitout sayink der vørd 'stårving', 'kay? Now, yøu vere in der vørest før vhy?"

"Because we were hungry!" Thorin growled impertinently.

"Nei, nei, nei, seely 'lil dörf!" the ElvenKing shouted. "Ve veren't åskink fer nø see-no-neems!" The king then spat out the greatest of Elvish curses, "Påskkärringar!" which translates roughly to 'the little girls who dress up as freckle-faced witches and beg for sweets at Easter', and sent the stubborn dwarf to a jail cell until his tongued loosened sufficiently to answer questions without the use of see-no-neems.

The ElvenKing king brooded darkly upon his carven oak throne for quite a while, and then called forth his trusty marchwardens. "Götterdämmerungsdottir," the ElvenKing shouted for his captain, "vhy don't yøu be tækin' Fjalarvilhjálmsson 'n' Þórssonorðlenska und get dem udder dörfish vølk from der vørest qvick as å vink!"

The captain and his men looked at each other quizzically, and then back at the king. "I beg you pardon, your majesty," Götterdämmerungsdottir said hesitantly, "but would you be so kind as to repeat that last part again?"

"Våt, qvick as å vink?" the ElvenKing asked. "Yøu know, qvick as å vink, qvick as å vink!" the king said, then winked at the captain.

The captain blushed, presuming the king was making rather untoward advances. "Here, sir?" he said as he started pulling down his pants. "In front of the men?"

The ElvenKing sighed and then rolled his eyes. "Jus' gø get der dåmn dörfs, und hurry!"

ooOOooOOoo

About this time, Bilbo and his Naugrim comrades had decided that the missing dwarf was either Thorin or Ori.

"But Ori don't even appear in this here parody," Bombur recalled, 'his place was taken by Dumplin."

"That settles it then!" Dwalin said with a good deal of misguided self-assuredness. "Balin is missing."

"No, I am not, Dwalin, I am right here!" Balin replied irritably.

"Oh, Balin, I've missed you so," Dwalin cried with relief. But just as all the dwarves were joyously welcoming Balin back (even though he had never left), they found themselves in a new predicament. For a great number of Silvan Elves armed with spears had surreptitiously surrounded the hollow, and for a second time that day the dwarves found themselves captured by an implacable foe. It was a good thing that Bilbo, having grown weary of the dwarves' grating circumlocutions, had decided to reconnoiter the area a bit to see if perhaps he could find the path they had strayed from earlier in the day. Although he hadn't got too far from the hollow, he was far enough away not to be caught in the elvish dragnet.

Bilbo quickly put on his ring and disappeared, but he would have to think up a new strategy to save the dwarves. Throwing stones and reciting bad poetry would not have the same effect on elves as it had on the spiders. Instead, the redoubtable Mr. Baggins decided to follow at a safe distance, keeping his looming shadow out of the light of the elves' bobbing torches. The determined little hobbit had hoped against hope that there was some way he might extricate his comrades from their captivity without causing too much of a ruckus (as elves despise ruckuses); but alas, Bilbo's hopes for a quick remedy were dashed, as the elves marched the bound dwarves over a great stone bridge, and onto the other side where stood the massive gates that led to the underground demesne of the ElvenKing.

Poor Bilbo was dead tired, but after several hesitant false starts, he scuttled across the bridge and managed to squeeze his way through the gates before they shut tight. All this commotion had roiled Bilbo's stomach something fierce, which was further agitated because he had gobbled up some blackberries he had found in the wood earlier. Try as he may, the distressed hobbit could not stop the gas that eked rather juicily from his nether regions.

One of the elven guards stopped as if he had been physically assaulted, and with a queasy look at his comrade, said, "Ummm…did you just break wind?"

The other elf guard glared angrily at his companion and replied, "Fool! Everyone knows that elves are too noble to fart -- we don't even have sphincters!"

"Ah, right," the first guard said with a sheepish grin. But the pungent bouquet of new-blown flatulence still hung heavily in the air, and he looked about the mouth of the cave uneasily. Unable to see Bilbo, the elf finally shrugged and ran to catch up with the others as they made their way down into the cavern.

Bilbo heaved a heavy sigh of relief at his narrow escape, but he couldn't help but be pleased with his effluent expulsion. "The boys back at the Green Dragon would have called that one 'a right proper 1320'!" he said in a gleeful whisper, harkening back to the year Tobold Hornblower cleared the entire common room of the inn with one mighty blast.


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter Sixteen: Bondage and Barrels**

The elvish guards dragged their hapless captives before the angry ElvenKing, while _Invisi-Bilbo™_ lurked unobtrusively in the antechamber of the throne room. The ElvenKing (or, as he was named in 'The Lord of the Rings', Thranduil, which means 'malaprop' in Sindarin) glared haughtily at the bedraggled dwarves, and sneered, "Ees der vun åmunk yøu dörfs who cån træt vis å Keeng?"

The dwarves were at a loss for words. Bombur leaned over to Götterdämmerungsdottir, the elvish captain, and mumbled, "What'd 'ee say?"

Götterdämmerungsdottir replied, "The king asks who among you dwarves has the authority to speak to him."

"Ah, right," Bombur nodded. Bowing to the ElvenKing, Bombur replied, "Lookie 'ere, yer Maggie's tea, I aint much fer speechifyin' an' all, but I'll do in a pinch."

The ElvenKing cocked an eyebrow at the rotund dwarf, and then looked to Götterdämmerungsdottir. "Våt vas dåt?" he grumbled.

The elvish captain rolled his eyes and explained, "The fat one will speak for the rest."

"Ja, gud, gud!" the ElvenKing said. Then the king straightened his plaited platinum locks, and trained his piercing cerulean blue eyes (pervasive elven traits promulgated by Peter Jackson) upon Bombur and shouted, "Yust vhy før vere yøu in der vørest mitout læve, und pesterink our vølk?"

Bombur bit his lip uneasily and looked plaintively at Götterdämmerungsdottir, who elucidated, "The king wishes to know why you were trespassing in the forest and bothering his people."

Bombur answered the king, "Truth to tell, yer Maggie's tea, it weren't that we be a loiterin' lot; nay, we were just wantin' a bit and a bite is all."

The ElvenKing glanced in annoyance at his captain. "They were looking for drink and food, majesty," Götterdämmerungsdottir sighed.

"Vell, dörfs sure götts a vunny vay øv gøink aboot tings," the king muttered.

Bombur gaped at Götterdämmerungsdottir, who shook his head and said, "No need to answer, the king was speaking rhetorically."

The ElvenKing then continued, "Yust våt shöuld ve dø vis yøu den, eh? Nåughty 'lil dörfs! Ye yust håd tø gø und rile up dem dere schpæders, didn'chå? Und den fer å tøpper, måken much håvoc vile ve vere håvink dem silvan væsts!"

Bombur looked to Götterdämmerungsdottir, who merely shrugged and glanced over to his second in command, Fjalarvilhjálmsson. Fjalarvilhjálmsson conferred in whispers with the third in command, Þórssonorðlenska, who finally said, "I'm not sure, but I believe the king was referring to something about spiders and feasts."

"Yer darn tootin' schpæders und væsts!" the ElvenKing bellowed, now utterly exacerbated at the tedious translations. "Yust zend döse collöqvial-schpækink dörfs åvay 'til ve påss our yudgment øn dem."

And so, the dwarves were dragged off, placed in chains, thrown into individual holding cells, and forbidden to speak with one another (why the elves had so many jail cells at this period of the 3rd Age is up for conjecture). Fortunately, the still-transparent Bilbo had followed the rather shabby proceedings and took careful note of where the dwarf's were imprisoned. In addition, he discovered that Thorin, too, was being held captive in an adjacent wing of the palace. Over the next few days, the stealthy hobbit passed messages back and forth between the incarcerated dwarves and planned their escape. Dwalin's suggestion of building another bridge –- this one a cantilevered steel structure with great stone aqueducts to power the raising and lowering of the spans – was hotly debated; but as the dwarves only had wooden spoons for tools (not to mention being underground without forges or a water source), the proposal, though intriguing, was shelved indefinitely. But the resourceful Mr. Baggins had ideas of his own.

As he made his lonely rounds of the ElvenKing's subterranean manse, furtively stealing food from well-stocked pantries and vainly searching for avenues of escape, Bilbo discovered the king's wine cellars. As a handy plot contrivance, the stone flooring in the room was cut away and encased by sturdy oaken timbers that framed a trapdoor, and rushing beneath the door an underground stream wound its way out of the caverns, eventually merging with a fast-running river. The cellar itself was stocked with barrel upon barrel of vintage wine for the ElvenKing's table. After nosing about and eavesdropping on the king's servants, Bilbo learned that the fully-laden barrels were piloted en masse up the river by men from a picturesque community built upon bridges and stilts which sat in the middle of a rather lengthy lake (hence the clever names 'Laketown' and 'Long Lake'). The men of Laketown thrived on the trade they did with the elves and other unnamed folk who lived beyond the lake in the vicinity of Rhûn (please refer to your Middle-earth map and look for an expansive blank area out east). When the obviously sottish ElvenKing had drained the barrels, they were dropped through the trapdoor and floated back downstream to Laketown, and the process would start all over again. It was an ingenious method of trafficking, and yet another historical example of how men (and elves too, I suppose) overcame any obstacle in finding an expedient means of procuring their drug of choice. This ancient method of delivering illicit material cheaply via a waterway would have made any Depression-era Chicago bootlegger proud.

"Oh please, get off your soapbox!" Bilbo snapped, offended that the genesis of his clever plan had been interrupted by moralizing.

What-ever! All right, this loading and unloading of barrels from the underground stream gave Bilbo a brilliant idea. There, are you happy?

"Yes, thank you," Bilbo said with a smirk, "please continue."

So, that night after dinner was served to the prisoners, Bilbo saw his chance. He had overheard earlier that the wine steward was going to rid the cellar of all of the empty barrels, and he had asked the chief guard for his aid in dropping them through the trapdoor. "Naturally, there will be some type of remuneration involved, if you get my meaning," the steward said to the guard with a wink.

"I'll take my pay in liquid form, if you don't mind," the guard retorted with a nudge.

"Say no more, say no more," the steward laughed.

Bilbo snuck to each cell and warned the dwarves to be at the ready, for their time of deliverance was at hand. Then he crept back to the cellar to check on the steward and the guard, who had been drinking rather heavily for nearly two hours.

"So…the wife, she says, 'Galion, drop dead!'" the steward slurred, "and I says, 'I can't drop dead -- I'm an elf!'"

"Hah!" the guard exclaimed as he spat out some wine. "That'll teach her, that'll teach her!"

"Well, it aint that she's a bad woman…errr…whatever you call an adult female elf," the steward sputtered hesitantly.

"Yeah...what do you call 'em?" the guard said slowly, struggling for the right word. "Elf-lady?"

"Nah, too awkward," the steward grunted.

"Elfess?" the guard mumbled, knowing it was a reach.

"Elfess?" the steward grimaced. "Only if you're writin' very bad Mary-Sue fan-fic."

"Pah!" the guard spat, now quite exhausted by all this unnecessary thinking. "Anyways, you were sayin' the wife weren't bad?"

"Nah, not really." the steward reflected. "It's just that after near four-hunnert years 'o' marriage, things is getting a bit stale."

"Yeah, they say the honeymoon's over after the first century," the guard commiserated.

"Aint that the truth," the steward grumbled miserably, "and us poor elf 'usbands with in-laws as never dies."

"My mother-in-law never lets me forget my wife could have married Glorfindel," the guard opined. "A 'real elf's elf', she calls him. Well, is it my fault I never saw the light of the Two Trees or fought a Balrog? I wasn't even born in the First Age!"

"Now, now, Inglor," the steward said as he patted the guards back, "them is just stories to get yer goat. Glorfindel lived in Gondolin, and Silvan folk didna' live within a hunnert miles 'o' the place."

But the besotted guard never answered. He had slumped face-first against the table and was already snoring loudly. This didn't seem to have much effect on the steward, who continued rambling in a dissolute monologue punctuated by giggles and snorts. But he also finally surrendered to Dionysian sleep, lustily straddling a sidelong barrel and murmuring 'Arwen'.

Bilbo carefully snagged the guard's keys and rounded up the dwarves from their cells (that he had taken off the ring should be apparent). There was much pushing and shoving and grumbling as they passed down the darkened corridors, and on at least a two occasions Bilbo threatened to send the dwarves back to their cells if they didn't behave, but they eventually reached the wine cellar without raising any alarms. The dwarves looked about the cellar, gazed down at the sleeping elves, then glared at Bilbo.

"Why have you brought us in here, cursed hobbit?" Thorin hissed crankily, as sleeping in the dank cell had caused his rheumatism to flare up. "I thought you had found a way out of this place."

"I brought you in to get you out," Bilbo answered cryptically.

"Aint that a Timothy Leary quote?" Dwalin asked, trying desperately to sharpen his conversational skills.

"No, Leary said, 'Turn on, tune in, and drop out'," Bombur corrected, showing his age and evident proclivities.

Before the anachronistic asides became too pronounced, Bilbo explained that each dwarf should climb into a barrel, which Bilbo would seal, and once the elves woke from their drunken stupors, they would toss the barrels through the trapdoor, and the whole group would escape by floating out by the stream.

"But I can't swim!" Bombur whined.

"You won't have to," Bilbo laughed, "that's the beauty of it! You'll be all safe and snug in barrels."

"We'll suffocate in there!" Balin said squeamishly, looking down into the dark recesses of one of the barrels.

"No, you can breathe out of your bunghole," Bilbo replied.

"I don't think even Dumplin can do that," Dwalin said doubtfully.

Bilbo rolled his eyes. "No, the bunghole -- where you stick a cock."

Dumplin leered seductively at the hobbit and ran a finger slowly down his…her lip.

Frodo was now absolutely flustered. "No, no, no! A cock is another word for spigot or tap, and you put it in the bunghole of a barrel, so that you can pour wine."

"Mr. Baggins, now is not the time for double entendres!" Thorin groused.

Bilbo sighed in futility. "Just get in the barrels."


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter Seventeen:****The Wading is the Hardest, Bard **

There was, of course, a very sordid scene in which elves coming from the King's feast found the steward and guard 'in their cups' (an archaic English term for drunkenness first mentioned by Hoccleve, circa 1406). The mischievous elves had some juvenile fun with the sleeping sops (the old hand-in-a-warm-bowl-of-water-to-make-the-sleeper-pee trick, for one), but once the liquored laggards were roused, the barrels did indeed eventually make their way one-by-one through the trapdoor. Naturally, as with every other mundane activity in Middle-earth, this was accompanied by a song:

_Roll out the barrels, the king fears that something's amiss -- _  
_Roll out the barrels, the steward and guard have got pissed!_  
_Tra-la, tra-lay, tum-tarrel, they're in one hell of a bind --_  
_They drank up all of the barrels, and the king will have their behinds!_

Yet in the rush to get the dwarves safely away, Bilbo had entirely neglected to make accommodations for himself! Dreading the water as hobbits do, Bilbo sucked up his waning halfling courage, and dived through the trapdoor just as the elves were shutting it. With a tremendous splash, a gulp of freezing water and a pin-cushiony shock to his tender sensibilities, Bilbo was whisked away in the turbulent stream.

Fearing that he would be drownded (a verb tense exclusive to hobbits), Bilbo clung desperately to the closest barrel as the swift current launched them out of the caverns, and with one last, gasping effort managed to climb atop without rolling back in the water. Clinging like a wet rat to some flotsam and ever mindful of capsizing, the hobbit spent the better part of the night shivering in the chill air. As an accompaniment to his chattering teeth, Bilbo hummed an appropriate air 'The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald' penned by Gordo Lightfoot, a Hobbitish balladeer of the North Downs.

The bouncing barrels wended their way down the Forest River for several hours, and were at last snagged along the north bank where the sweeping water had eroded a small bay into the shore. There, men of Laketown waited with poles to prod the barrels together, and then roped them off so that they could be floated en masse to the lake later that morning. After the men had left, Bilbo flopped off his precarious perch and muddled his way through the muck to shore, ruefully wondering if any of the dwarves had survived the hellacious journey downstream. As he had in the ElvenKing's manse, the resourceful hobbit pilfered food from some nearby huts of the Lakemen and then curled up by a fire (having donned his ring again for security purposes). He slept soundly for quite awhile; that is, until he woke himself with a tremendous sneeze.

"God bless you," one Lakeman said to another as they warmed themselves over the fire.

"God? Who's God?" the other man said to the first. "And why should he bless me anyways?"

"God…you know, the supreme being. Also known as Eru and Iluvatar."

"Iluva-who?" the second blurted. Supreme being? What, 'ee's 'igher in status than the Master of Laketown? Sort 'o' like a guv'nor?"

"Oh no, beyond all that. He created all of this."

"If that be so, 'ow come I never 'eard tell of 'im, then?"

"Because there's an amazing lack of religiousness in Middle-earth, particularly among us mortals. A paradox quite at odds with the author's ardent Catholicity, to be sure."

"So, this God/Eru/Iluva-whatsis feller created all this, did he?"

"Yes, and us as well."

The second man looked rather queerly at the first. "Well, it seems 'ee's rather sloppy then, as you got the biggest goiter on yer neck as I've ever seen. You'd think a supreme being wouldn'a wasted time on bulgin' abnormalities 'o' the thyroid. Seems a bit daft, really."

"Well, I'm sure there's a reason…"

"And what about bowel movements? Did the supreme being create bowel movements?"

"Well, I guess so…"

"Again, sloppy crapsmanship, if you get my meanin'," the second laughed. "You gotta wipe yer arse, else ye stink! This God bloke should'a developed clean elimination technology."

"Oh, now you're just being facetious!" the first retorted.

"Am not!" the second snapped back. "And then there's them two fleshy vertical lines on yer upper lip -- do they serve a purpose?"

"They might have at one time. I think it's merely a process of evolution, like our baby toes eventually getting so small they'll disappear."

"Who's Eve O'Looshin? She married to Iluva-whosits? And can she be invoked to remedy messy bowel movements?"

By then Bilbo had crept away from the campfire, leaving the two Lakemen to continue their scatologically-tinged dialogue on eschatology in private. For now, Bilbo was sniveling and wheezing something awful, and even though his ring offered him invisibility, it did not suppress his snorts and hacks and violent sneezes; therefore, he was forced to hide in the forest for fear of being caught by the end of his nose, so to speak. Fortunately, he was lucky enough to sneak back aboard the barrels in time before the men shoved off for Laketown. It was a much easier ride for Bilbo this time around, with the barrels tied together rather like a huge raft.

**[EDITOR'S NOTE]** _Pardon for the intrusion, but this is Editor #2 here. As you may remember, Narrator #1 had kidnapped Editor #1 and Narrator #3, and was holding them captive in his apartment; that is, until Narrator #1's landlady, a certain Miss Eustacia Dalrymple-Happenstance, complained to the authorities regarding the intolerable stench emanating from Narrator #1's rooms. Needless to say, upon investigation the police discovered a horrific scene of literary torture of such magnitude that decorum prohibits me from describing it in a family-oriented forum. Let's just say that James Joyce, ritualistic cannibalism and Barry Manilow's song 'Copacabana' are items to be eschewed by decent society._

_In any case, due to the untimely and gruesome demise of Editor #1, the publishers have hired me as Editor #2. We then made an attempt to rehire Narrator #2 (who had replaced Narrator #1, only to be sacked in favor of Narrator #3); unfortunately, Narrator #2 wished to have nothing further to do with the project (particularly in light of attending the burial of Narrator #3's scant remains). Instead, Narrator #2 is now hiding in a safe house for fear of Narrator #1 escaping from his confinement in the 'Oxfordshire Sanitarium for the Literary and Criminally Insane', located, oddly enough, in Stratford-on-Avon, birthplace of Shakespeare. But I digress, and a digression in this case lacks discretion. So, without further ado, I'd like to introduce Narrator #4, who has spent the last several years in a Buddhist Temple in Nepal and has no idea of the circumstances surrounding his hiring, nor has he ever read The Hobbit, or The Lord of the Rings, for that matter. He really isn't even very funny. Truth be told, he has the personality of a box of hair. But he is the publisher's nephew, and that is as good a reason as any for making him a sacrificial lamb...errr...narrator. And so, for your entertainment..._

_*crickets chirping*_

_Hmmm…on further consideration, perhaps we shall allow Narrator #4 a chance to become better acquainted with the material; therefore, we shall give him a crash course on the story over the next few days, and he can commence with Chapter Eighteen. He will be forced to watch the dreadful Rankin-Bass cartoon edition of The Hobbit (the one with the frog-like, croaking Gollum), and perhaps, if time permits, he can view Peter Jackson's overblown movie trilogy. But not the extended version, as that could take weeks._


	18. Chapter 18

**Chapter 18: Opera Buffa Ville du Lac (In Three Acts)**

**Characters:**  
Thorin -- basso baritone  
Bilbo Baggins -- piccolo tenor  
Bombur –- basso profundo  
Dumplin -- mezzo soprano/castrato/hermaphrodito?  
Bard -- baritone  
Master of Laketown -- tenor  
Dwarven chorus  
Laketown choir  
Various elves  
Guard #1  
Guard #2

**ACT I – Je voudrais douze macarons, s'il vous plait**  
(In which the dwarves, at last released from their barrels, enter Laketown to joyous acclaim)

**Guard #1:** _I see some people!_

**Guard# 2:** _I see no people._

**Guard #1:** _I see some people, some very short people!_

**Guard #2:** _Have you been drinking, sir?_

**Guard #1:** _Just what do you infer?_

**Guard #2:** _I think you're on the sauce,_  
_and I'll go tell the boss!_

**Guard #1:** _Poppycock and balderdash --_  
_Your accusation's rather rash --_  
_Near the bridge on yonder hill,_  
_Take a look, I see them still._

**Guard #2:** _By God, you're right, they are so small --_  
_Not a one o'er four-feet tall._  
_By all that's sacred, docks and wharves,_  
_Behold! A band of doughty dwarves!_

**Thorin:** _I am Thorin, King under the Mountain._

**Dwarven chorus:** _Glorious Thorin, King under the Mountain!_

**Guard #1:**_ Do my eyes deceive me here,_  
_I cannot believe my ears._  
_A legendary dwarf of old_  
_Trods a path imbued with gold._

**Guard #2:** _See, I knew that you were drunk!_  
_My eyes don't see what you have thunk._  
_Before us now a motley crew --_  
_Disheveled dwarves that smell of poo!_

**Thorin:** _I am what I am,_  
_Let your eyes not betray._  
_I have returned,_  
_'Tis a glorious day!_

**Dwarven chorus:** _We are what we are,_  
_Even if we smell this way!_

**Guard #2:** _Then who is this?_  
_No dwarf is he --_  
_With beardless face_  
_And hairy feet!_

**Bilbo:** _No dwarf am I,_  
_It's plain to see --_  
_I'm Bilbo Baggins_  
_From the Shire I be._

**Dwarven chorus:** _From the Shire is he!_

**Bilbo:** _Nor man am I,_  
_But Hobbit born --_  
_My name sounds funny_  
_Like soft-core porn._

**Dwarven chorus:** _Soft-core porn!_

**Thorin:** _Enough! Do not detract from my self-importance._

**Dwarven chorus:** _Forgive us our trespasses!_

**Thorin:** _Sturdy guards of Laketown,_  
_Take us now in haste_  
_To your noble Master,_  
_We've no time to waste._

**Laketown choir:** _Sing, sing a song of greed for dwarves once more among us!_  
_Soon shall the shining gold be heaped in piles before us._  
_Their gold in ingots so pure will sure be a cure for poverty._  
_Laketown will stand alone in vast newfound prosperity._

**Master:** _Good people of Laketown, have a care._  
_We mustn't be caught at unawares._  
_We must move forward cautiously,_  
_The opinion polls must all agree._

**Various elf #1:** _Do not be fooled,_  
_Or get involved in this thing!_  
_These dirty dwarves_  
_Were prisoners of the ElvenKing!_

**Master:** _Good people of Laketown, I am afraid_  
_That aiding the dwarves will damage our trade!_  
_And dwarves in barrels will profit us less_  
_Than the ElvenKing's longstanding largesse._

**Various elf #2:** _I don't understand_  
_Why you pause to consider_  
_This silly dwarven babble_  
_That sets your hearts a' twitter._

**Laketown choir:** _Come sing a song of lust, do not mistrust in what you see!_  
_These dwarves might look like vagabonds -- they're in cognito, obviously._  
_All that glitters is not gold, the tales of old are bold and strong!_  
_In the meantime be polite, we'll lynch them if they're proven wrong._

**Thorin:** _I go to Erebor,_  
_The heart of the Lonely Mountain,_  
_To sweep the stony floors_  
_And cleanse the sparkling fountains!_

**Various elf #3:** _See? He goes to Erebor_  
_Not as a king but a janitor!_

**Master:** _And what if he awakens Smaug?_  
_That would be most tragic!_  
_In my position I cannot decide_  
_Without weighing demographics._

**Thorin:** _No thief am I, nor Janitor --_  
_I claim my right to Erebor!_  
_No dragon spawn shall thus delay,_  
_The path is clear – 'tis a glorious day!_

**Dwarven chorus:** _A glorious day! A frabjous day!_  
_Callooh! Callay! We're on our way!_

**Laketown choir:** _Come sing of avarice, O Master of frugality!_  
_Abandon your cautiousness and bend to mob mentality._  
_All our pens are poised to recall you from the halls of government,_  
_Thus then to be disgraced and face certain retirement._

**Master:** [as an aside] _The people have spoken, I must obey --_  
_At least till these dwarves are far away._  
_I'll reap the rewards if the dwarves get hot,_  
_And still retain power if they are forgot._

[to the throng] _Who am I, but a lowly bureaucrat?_  
_Bowed by this office so grave._  
_Ergo, by popular concordat,_  
_Give the dwarves the assistance they crave._

**Bombur:** _By Mahal's balls! I thought this debate would never cease!_  
_So thank you all, now please, can we eat in peace?_

**ACT II – The Esgarothian Threnody**  
(In which Bard, unemployed and unappreciated, bemoans his fate in back of the hall)

**Bard:** _Is this a hero's life_  
_In Middle-earth fantasy?_  
_I play second-fiddle_  
_To a Hobbit who's three foot three,_  
_And dwarves I despise,_  
_They don't realize --_  
_I've ceased…to be…_  
_I'm just a poor heir of long-dead Girion --_  
_He was the Lord of Dale, then he failed,_  
_When Smaug the dragon whipped his tail._  
_Everywhere were flames blown,_  
_Burning up a kingdom for me…for me._

_Drama -- I crave a role,_  
_An epic tale, a meaty part --_  
_Shoot a dragon in the heart!_  
_Drama -- stardom would be fun,_  
_But now it seems I've missed the casting call!_  
_Drama – Ooooooo,_  
_The leading roles have passed me by,_  
_If the script is not rewritten this time tomorrow,_  
_I'll move on, I'll move on,_  
_Because scripting really matters._

_Too late, my crown is gone!_  
_It would've looked good upon my head,_  
_Now the dream is all but dead._  
_Goodbye to the pomp and panoply,_  
_And all the nifty words that describe majesty._  
_Drama – Ooooooo,_  
_I just want my rightful throne,_  
_I sometimes wish I lacked a pedigree –_

**Master:** _I see a little bitty shadow of a man!_

**Laketown choir:** _He's a boob, he's a noob, he's not worth a bruised mango!_  
_He's so uninviting, he is not exciting me._

**Dumplin:** _Where's the mayo?_

**Bombur:** _Do you need mayo?_

**Dumplin:** _Where's the mayo?_

**Bombur:** _Do you need mayo?_

**Dumplin:** _Where's the mayo for my toast?_

**Bombur:** _I need more rolls!_

**Bard:** _I'm just an actor, nobody casts me._

**Laketown choir:** _He's just an actor stuck in rehearsals,_  
_Spare him a role in the next production, please._

**Bard:** _Epics come, epics go, can I have a role?_

**Laketown choir:** _Scriptwriter – please, give the man a role!_

**Dumplin:** _Buttered rolls!_

**Laketown choir:** _Scriptwriter – please, give the man a role!_

**Dumplin:** _Buttered rolls!_

**Laketown choir:** _Scriptwriter – please, give the man a role!_

**Dumplin:** _Buttered rolls!_

**The Dwarves and Laketown choir:** _Please give him a role – buttered rolls,_  
_Please give him a role – buttered rolls,_  
_Please give him a role – buttered rolls --_  
_No, no, no, no, no, no, no!_

**Bombur:** _Cotto salami!_

**The Dwarves and Laketown choir:** _He'll have salami with his rolls!_  
_Morgoth Bauglir has a goblin put aside for me_  
_For me, for me!_

**Bilbo:** _I can't believe I left the Shire for this!_  
_I'll put on my ring and maybe I won't be missed!_  
_O Gandalf! Why'd you do this to me Gandalf?_  
_I've got to get out, get me the Hell out of here!_

**Bard:** _Scripting really matters_  
_For actors such as me_  
_Scripting really matters_  
_Scripting really matters to me…_

**Dwarven choir:** _May we have more buttered rolls?_

**ACT III – East Side Story**  
(Wherein the dwarves, well-supplied by the Lakemen, prepare for the final leg of the journey)

**Master:** _Well, it seems that you have eaten well_  
_Of all that we have proffered._  
_So, tell me, will you be leaving soon?_  
_You are draining up our coffers!_

**Thorin:** _All seems to be at the ready._

**Dwarven chorus:** _All is at the ready._

**Thorin:** _The skies are clear, the wind is steady._

**Dwarven chorus:** _Clearly steady._

**Thorin:** _Our will is strong and our dander is up!_

**Dwarven chorus:** _We have lots of dandruff!_

**Thorin:** _Oh, would you shut up!_

**Dwarven chorus:** _Yes, we shall shut…oh…heh. Yes, sorry._

**Bilbo:** _Dumplin, you laugh not like you should,_  
_Your sadness doth dismay._  
_You've been grieving since we left Mirkwood_  
_In such a melancholy way._  
_Pray tell, explain your reticence,_  
_And what aid we can relay…_

**Dumplin:** _It is just…_

**Bilbo:** _Yes?_

**Dumplin:** _That I must…_

**Bilbo:** _Yes, yes?_

**Dumplin:** _Give up Legolas!_

**Bilbo:** _Ummm…_

**Dumplin:** _I felt pretty,_  
_Oh so pretty._  
_I felt pretty and witty and bright._  
_But it's a pity,_  
_Now I feel shitty --_  
_I'm without Legolas tonight._

_I felt charming,_  
_Oh so charming._  
_It's so alarming_  
_My Prince Charming's an elf!_  
_But it's a pity,_  
_And oh so shitty,_  
_That I am left here by myself._

**Thorin:** _Dumplin, against Smaug we need every dwarf We've got!_

**Bombur:** _It seems Dumplin is a dwarf that is not._

**Thorin:** _Cut it out, Bombur, as your King I started this quest!_

**Bombur:** _Well, he acts like he…she…don't want to belong, I guess._

**Thorin:** _Who wouldn't want to belong to this dwarven clan?_

**Bombur:** _Dumplin aint been with us since our Mirkwood trip began._

**Thorin:** _In the forest he saved your ever-lovin' neck!_

**Bombur:** _Before or after you were gonna eat me, by heck!_

**Bilbo:** _He…she's….come through for you all along!_  
_Oh no! I think this is a segue for a song…_

**Dwarven chorus:** [snapping fingers] _When you're a dwarf,_  
_You're a dwarf all the way_  
_From your first hint of beard_  
_Till your axe rusts away._

_When you're a dwarf,_  
_And half out of your mine,_  
_Let your friends pull you in_  
_Where the digging is fine._

_Born and bred in the stone,_  
_Your catacomb's connected._  
_The mountain's your home,_  
_When dragons are suspected_  
_You're not neglected!_

_Hammered in rock_  
_With a capitol D,_  
_From the helm on your head_  
_To the spot where you pee --_  
_When you're a dwarf_  
_You stay a dwarf!_

**Dumplin:** _I didn't know you felt that way._  
_It's quite endearing, I must say!_  
_Please go on, I'm quite impressed --_  
_My heart is pumping 'neath my breasts!_

**Dwarven chorus:** _When you're a dwarf_  
_You wear nothing but mail,_  
_We're all sporting beards --_  
_Even dwarvish females!_

_When you're short as a dwarf_  
_You live under a mound,_  
_Because you got brains_  
_That are close to the ground._

_The dwarves are all here,_  
_And Smaug will soon regret it!_  
_He's taken our home,_  
_And now he's gonna get it!_

_Here come the dwarves_  
_Like a warg out of hell,_  
_Some dragon gets in our way_  
_That worm won't feel so well --_  
_When you're a dwarf_  
_You stay a dwarf!_

**Bilbo:** _Ummm…can we go now? I think I just vomited in my mouth a little._


	19. Chapter 19

**Chapter 19: Beyond the Doorstep of Perception, a Brave New World **

**(Point, Counterpoint with a Rhetorical Reptile)**

It was Mark Twain who once remarked, "Of all the creatures that were made, man is the most detestable. Of the entire brood he is the only one--the solitary one--that possesses malice." Twain was insightful and correct in context, but then he had never made the acquaintance of a dragon. Had he done so, he might have altered his view, particularly if the whiskers of his formidable moustache had been singed during the encounter. Bilbo pondered this thought (well, a like thought -- he had never actually read Twain) as he and the dwarves skirted the stony tors rising to meet the Lonely Mountain, that is, Erebor. It has been said that Erebor was called the 'Lonely Mountain' due to the lack of Dwarvish females, but this has been discounted as merely an Elven jest. In actuality, Erebor was indeed a solitary mount, the last vestige and great citadel of the Iron Hills, which ranged in disheveled heaves and humps further to the east; but Bilbo cared very little for local topography at this point. As a matter of fact, the only geography he yearned for was the homely environs of the hill at Bag End, with its mellow mounds of pudding ringed by luscious hedges of whipped cream, and streams of frothy brown ale sparkling darkly in the sweet sunlight. But Bilbo's ambrosial reverie was crushed in mid-quaff by a rather noisome fart from the bulbous behind of Bombur, who had been imbibing in a crock of baked beans for much of the morning.

"Oh, that was a rippin' good one!" Dwalin cried in admiration.

"Yes, that certainly was a 'Durin the Deathless'!" Balin bubbled blissfully. For you see, Dwarves have a certain affinity for passing gas: the amplitude, the consistency and texture ('wetness factor'), and, most certainly, the aroma. Perhaps it was a communal mode of attachment, of shared remembrances of home, and of the sulfuric and other noxious fumes emanating from the caverns and mines they so loved. 'Elves sing and Dwarves fart', as the adage goes, for this was an inherent factor in the Dwarves' physical makeup, and an important rite of 'passage' for any young Dwarf (fathers fondly remembered their sons first 'Moria'). Bilbo was, of course, appalled at spending nights around a campfire with a chorus of Dwarves all farting and then rating the distinctive nature of their fetid offerings, making suggestions and each trying to outdo the other in the fine art of the fart sublime. Naturally, Bombur was the acknowledged master of the 'Khazad-Doom', which could clear an acre area of forest of all wildlife, yet draw swarms of flies from other continents in one foul swoop.

"Would you please quit farting around!" Thorin barked irritably.

Ummm…yes…certainly. The Lonely Mountain loomed ever larger, menacingly so, and the shadow of the stark prominence now swallowed the band of travelers in its murky maw. The Dwarves and Bilbo had followed the wending line of the River Running north and west from Laketown, and at last they beheld the great Dwarven gates of Erebor that stood stolidly between two massive spurs of the mountain, from whence the river's source sprang. But the ominous smokes arising from the mountain gave the Dwarves pause; not that they feared Smaug was at home – pffft! of course not, silly -- they were far too brave to worry about such an insignificant impediment. But they moved along to the western side of the mountain for the sake of the Hobbit and his delicate lungs, not wishing to endanger Bilbo's health unnecessarily. After all, the dwarves were his employer, and they were contractually bound to ensure the burglar was not eaten prematurely.

Suddenly, a pair of enormous, menacing eyes -- feline in shape and yellow-green in hue, but scalded of all but the basest emotions by ages of smoldering evil -- glared with a preternatural malevolence from the blackest shadows like disembodied demons illuminated by the fires of Angband. "Enough!" it hissed, if a hiss could be amplified into the ominous rumble of distant thunder. "I have waited overlong for my scene, and you have taxed my patience with noxious Naugrim gases, Halflings having pudding wet dreams, Samuel Longhorn Clemens -- whoever that is – and pretentious literary allusions to Aldous Huxley in the chapter title. Get on with it, or I shall burn the pages of your manuscript and eat your grandmum!"

The narrator paused in mid-thought. How dare a character fulminate in so brash a manner! And even worse, threaten his granny, who at that moment was certainly participating in her perpetual mah-jongg tournament at the Fletcher Memorial Home for the Mostly Insensate and Partially Embalmed. But the daunting eyes cowed the narrator, to the point where he was typing of himself in the third person. Thus unnerved, the narrator blithely skipped over the entire section of the story wherein Bilbo and the Dwarves struggled up the mountainside, found the hidden door, and dragged fat Bombur up to the top in a titanic struggle that strained the taut rope to its breaking point.

"Thank the Lor' for impromptu editin'," Bombur sighed as he mopped his brow and edged away from the vertiginous drop-off, "heights and me don't agree!"

The dwarves passed apprehensively through the secret door and stood wavering in the gloom of a musty corridor. "Well, this is what we hired you for, master burglar," Thorin said unceremoniously to Bilbo. "Do proceed with all haste."

"Proceed…with what?" Bilbo muttered hesitantly, certain of the answer, but more than willing to waste as much time as possible.

"Why, burgling, of course," Thorin replied matter-of-factly.

"What…me…go in there?" Bilbo peeped.

Thorin harrumphed indignantly. "Yes, yes – it's all there in black and white – the articles and addenda of the contract are quite clear in this regard."

"I suppose it will do me no good to state that I've never even read the contract," Bilbo replied glumly.

"None whatsoever," Thorin answered.

"Right, off I go then," Bilbo sighed, but after he took a few steps forward into the increasing gloom, he turned and asked, "If in need of assistance, shall I cry out with the mating call of the male piping plover?"

"Simply calling out 'help' will do," Thorin said reassuringly. "We shall be right here waiting, at the ready to aid you."

"Fat lot 'o' good it'll do 'im," Bombur grunted under his breath and much closer to the truth than Thorin was willing to admit.

Bilbo merely shrugged like a convict condemned to death and marched off into the darkness. He returned within a few minutes holding a glinting metal object. At that moment, the sun pierced the glowering clouds and illuminated the corridor in glorious light, and celestial choirs of Ainur sang hymns of praise to Iluvatar as they did during the Ainulindalë before the sun and moon first scaled the heavens far, far back in the very deeps of time. Haloed in radiance, the Hobbit reverently handed his treasure to the anxious Thorin, whose hands quivered with barely contained excitement. Then the sun passed back into the clouds and all light was extinguished.

"Errrr…this is nothing but a tin can," Thorin snorted.

"Well…it is somewhat Grail-shaped," Bilbo replied rather unconvincingly.

"No, it is nothing of the sort," Thorin corrected the wayward burglar firmly; "it is a tin can."

"Oooh!" Bombur squealed with excitement. "_Auntie Dis's Cling Peaches in Heavy Syrup_! 'Oo's got a can-opener?"

Thorin rolled his eyes at Bombur's inveterate gluttony, and then glared angrily at Bilbo, who sighed in resignation and headed uneasily back down the corridor. Barely breathing, Bilbo snaked his way down the winding corridor, fearing at any moment to stumble headlong into the waiting jaws of the dragon, and this might very well have been the case if Bilbo had not paused momentarily to get his bearings. For, you see, Bilbo had luckily stopped at the end of the corridor, which, unbeknownst to him, overlooked a precipitous drop-off with a barely discernible set of pitted stone stairs precariously hugging the sheer chasm wall. Bilbo judiciously backed away from the opening, and quickly put on his ring. Feeling a bit safer in his ethereal anonymity, the Hobbit peered carefully outward from his perch.

As his eyes became accustomed to the murk, Bilbo noticed that he had nearly fallen into a great hall, with its vaulted ceiling rising inestimably into the darkness above, and many feet below the cavernous chamber loomed, gleaming dully in a reddish copper chiaroscuro like the shadow of a fire (if a fire had a shadow). And in the penumbral unlight Bilbo beheld the immense form of a dozing dragon sprawled languidly atop a vast pile of gold. Actually, the dragon was only pretending to sleep. He had one eye open and was impatiently drumming his talons, as he had been anxiously awaiting his big scene ever since paragraph four of this chapter. His dreams had been disturbed as of late, filled with echoes of falling stones, furtive footsteps, faint whispers and cling peaches in heavy syrup. It was the cling peaches that were uppermost in his mind now. Naturally, he preferred pineapples or mangoes, but as this was a temperate zone, he could not hope to see any fruit from the tropics, particularly with the Third Age's declining trade and lack of adequate transportation for perishable goods.

But Smaug's mind strayed from thoughts of produce and commerce as he caught a faint whiff of something in the air. It was neither musky and malodorous like the dirty Dwarves who once stunk up these halls, nor was it perfumy and effeminate like the Elves. No, this was an entirely new scent, certainly humanoid, but rather like crispy bacon and scrambled eggs with toast on a rainy Sunday morning. This both intrigued and hungered the dragon, who hadn't eaten in a century or so.

"Come, master thief," Smaug growled as he stretched like a monstrous cat newly roused from a nap, "I can smell your piquant aroma, and I must say the bouquet is enticing. Please, help yourself to more valuable items from my cache; after all, it is certainly not worth being flayed alive simply for purloining canned goods from a dragon's pantry."

"No thank you, O Smaug the Grandiloquent," Bilbo replied shrewdly, not wholly unaware of dragon lore and the proper etiquette for dialogue with such a beast. "I have come neither to nick your wares, nor to be flayed alive. I merely wished to see if reports of your disemboguing enormity were true. I must say, the legend does not match up to the reality."

"Doesn't it now?" Smaug answered, snickering quietly to himself at Bilbo's poor attempt at fustian oratory. After all, 'disemboguing' in this instance was a poor choice of an inflected verb.

"O, most certainly, Smaug the Incandescently Bourgeois," Bilbo continued enthusiastically, "Songs do not adequately insinuate your infinitesimal stature."

Smaug was becoming annoyed at Bilbo's malapropos, but played along out of sheer boredom. "You have nice manners for a sophomoric purveyor of banal bombast. It would seem you are well acquainted with my name; however, it seems I have missed the mention of yours. Who are you, and where do you come from, if I may be so bold as to inquire?"

"You may well ask, Smaug the Shrewishly Adumbrated," Bilbo replied cheerfully. "I come from under a hill, but my story is over-the-top. I have been to bed with a bawdy broad, but not bodily bumped uglies."

"Either you are virtuous, which seems highly unlikely for a thief and a liar, or you have erectile dysfunction syndrome," Smaug chuckled; "but come now, this limp attempt at alliteration is not a usual name."

"I am he that walks unseen, but is a sight for sore eyes. I have run rings around arachnids, and I have a ring as well, but not for whom the bell tolls – not for trolls, it's a ring for me."

"Not very _appealing_," Smaug grunted. "A muddled allusion to John Donne, certainly, but not anything to write home about. Please make sense!"

"I have out-riddled a riddler, battled with bats, tussled with trolls, aggrieved goblins, and then flown the coop."

"My, you sound like an archetypical comic book hero," Smaug grumbled inattentively, "all you need now is a cape, some tights and perhaps a secret identity."

"I cask nothing for myself, and bitter is my bearded brew, but I've had more fun than a barrelful of monkeys."

"My, this is getting tedious," Smaug sighed.

"I have sailed through the air but have no wings, I have paddled down a river without a boat, and I come from a bag-end, but the only bags I have are under my eyes."

"Well, you can't be losing sleep from thinking up these horrible puns," the dragon growled. "It seems more likely you have trekked a goodly distance to get here, and from all that you have intimated, you have certainly been through many trials and tribulations." The dragon shook his head in mock sympathy and added with a shrug, "'Tis a pity you have gone to all this bother for a band of ungrateful Dwarves."

Bilbo was at last at a loss for words. How in the world had Smaug guessed he was with Dwarves? But the dragon laughed at his invisible foe scornfully and continued. "Ah, so I have struck a chord, tweaked a nerve, stung your tender sensibilities, have I? I know the stench of Dwarves when I smell it! The plump ponies I ate last night had the stink of Durin's folk all over them! And now you and your Dwarven friends are trapped in that lightless corridor like the nettlesome rats that you are!"

Now Bilbo was really confused. "The ponies you ate last night? Forgive me for asking, O Smaug the Voluptuous, but when have you had time to do that? Pffft! Why, we aren't trapped in the least. It would seem Smaug the Perspicaciously Discommoded is slipping."

With mounting ire, the chagrined Smaug suddenly realized that in his haste to get to his big scene (and a possible Academy Award nomination for best special effects), he had forced the narrator to skip over the entire sequence of events where he had entrapped the Dwarves and eaten their ponies. With a Homeresque "D'oh!" Smaug rose from his golden bed and angrily sped out of the cavern, leaving poor Bilbo behind to ponder the meaning of the word 'discretion' -- or 'indiscretion', more likely.


	20. Chapter 20

**Chapter 20: Let's Try This Once Again, Shall We?**

As the angry dragon was exiting his lair, Bilbo ran desperately down the corridor to warn the waiting Dwarves. "Quickly, close the door!" Bilbo shrieked as he at last found his way back to the sunlit clearing. "The dragon is coming for us!"

"And why would the dragon be coming for us?" Thorin asked irritably. "He doesn't even know we're here."

"Ummm…I'm afraid he does now," Bilbo replied with chagrin.

"And WHY would HE know about US?" Thorin said emphatically.

"Well, you see, we were having a rather pleasant chat, Smaug and I. He is quite the conversationalist -- very learned for a reptile -- and…ummm…well…there you have it."

Thorin chewed anxiously on a great wad of his beard, and then threw his hands in the air. "Bilbo, you are not at the Green Dragon, and Smaug is not one of your loafing Hobbit chums chatting away about mushrooms and manure over a pint -- this is a winged, fire-breathing killing machine we are talking about!"

"Yes, I know," Bilbo dissembled rather wistfully, "but he was so witty – almost charming. It was all rather disarming, really."

Thorin's face became pinched and red as if he had been sucking lemons, or as if he were constipated. Perhaps he was sucking lemons as an old-fashioned home remedy for constipation; in any case, he shouted hotly, "But you were not supposed to talk to it! Once you talk to it, you end up revealing every little secret."

"Aye," Bombur said smiling, "they end up 'dragon' everythin' out 'o' you!"

Thorin scowled at Bombur, then turned again to Bilbo and said, "Needless to say, dragons are very shrewd in debate."

"What, dragons are Master Debaters?" Bombur chuckled, thinking he was on a roll; however, a second malevolent glance from Thorin quickly silenced any further jocularity.

"Excuse me, Thorin, but perhaps we really should go inside," Balin said politely.

Thorin was about to chastise Balin for the interruption when the vast shadow of the dragon loomed menacingly over the mountain. Without further protestations, Thorin led the Dwarves back into the secret corridor and closed the great, stone door, leaving it ajar just a crack in hopes of escape later. Suddenly fire scorched the hidden vale where the secret door lay hid behind rocky outcroppings, and flame even made its way through the crevice between door and jamb, singeing off half of Thorin's beard as he peered outward.

"Well, you were due for a trim." Dwalin said optimistically, but the screaming of the ponies as Smaug lunged for them in the valley below quickly dampened his enthusiasm. The ominous rush of Smaug's wings and his angry roar could be heard, now nearer now farther, as he circled the mountaintop searching for the Dwarves. After several hours cowering in the darkness, the gloomy Dwarves heaved a collective sigh of relief as silence at last pervaded their dim sanctuary. They reopened the door, and in the smoke-shrouded sunlight, they beheld a stark wilderland of burnt, black rock and withered grass. A thrush added a bit of color to the fiery carnage, ruffling his blue breast feathers as he feasted on burnt snails that had been caught unaware by Smaug's fiery rampage.

"That's one way to eat escargot," Bilbo said as he turned up his nose at the bird's lack of table manners.

"I'm 'ungry," Bombur opined, viewing the bird's gorging from a completely different angle. But the ponies and all of the Dwarves' supplies were gone, and the rotund Bombur now felt their plight most keenly. There would be no farting this night.

"Well, there is no going back now," Thorin grumbled, "for good or ill we must trudge onward." The King of the Dwarves considered this for a moment, then added, "Or, at least our chatty burglar shall go forward."

"What, me go back in there? You're out of your bloody mind!" Bilbo snapped, and folded his arms stubbornly across his chest, dead-set against returning.

In any event, Bilbo found himself treading lightly back down the darkened corridor, invisible and barely breathing, quietly cursing to himself for his lack of sense. Eventually, he was back at the spot where he had had his earlier conversation with Smaug, only this time the dragon was not feigning to be asleep; on the contrary, Smaug's luminous eyes were wide open, and his flaring nostrils caught Bilbo's scent as soon as the Hobbit neared the ending of the hall above. The dragon was ill at ease regarding his failed search for the dwarves the night previous, and although the ponies were delicious, he would have preferred a nice bordelaise sauce as an accompaniment (he did so love his sauces). But he intended to remain cordial with his hidden foe – at least until he could discover the dwarves' secret source of ingress to the mountain. "Welcome back my friend to the show that never ends, we're so glad you could attend, step inside, step inside," Smaug hummed, showing his snobbish preference for pretentious progressive rock music of the early '70's.

"Emerson, Lake and Palmer is a name better suited for a law firm than a rock band," Bilbo replied snarkily, evidently in no mood for Smaug's dry wit.

"Ah, a budding connoisseur of music," Smaug chuckled with rumbling mirth, "but the Dwarves shall not be playing Grieg's 'In the Hall of the Mountain King' anytime soon; at least, not in this vicinity."

"Perhaps not," Bilbo said with a grin, "but they may well be playing Khachaturian's 'Sabre Dance' as their axes fall upon you!"

Smaug laughed. "Well, a sabre -- or its alternative spelling s-a-b-e-r -- is a sword, not an axe, my connotationally-challenged young friend; but it matters not, as the Dwarves' axes could not pierce my hide, in any case. _My armor is like tenfold shields, my teeth are swords, my claws spears, the shock of my tail a thunderbolt, my wings a hurricane, and my breath death!"_

Bilbo was amused at Smaug's arrogance (the dragon even had the nerve to lift a quote directly from Tolkien's book!), and dutifully following one of the story's scripted _Deus ex machina,_ the Hobbit commented: "I've heard tell that dragons were particularly susceptible to injuries to the chest. But I am sure that is not the case in regards to you, O Smaug the Brobdingnagian!"

_Swift_ to reply, Smaug laughed a laugh that would have shaken the rafters, if a subterranean cavern had rafters. "Dolt! your information is hopelessly outdated. See, I am encrusted with adamantine below," the dragon bellowed as he bared his burgeoning belly, bulging with the beasts of burden he had breakfasted on.

In the dim light Bilbo beheld Smaug's shimmering underside, and sure enough, he was indeed caked with diamonds and other precious jewels that obviously became imbedded into his skin in some bizarre symbiotic biological process best described on Animal Planet or The Discovery Channel. But Bilbo noticed a great bare patch on the hollow of Smaug's left breast (Tolkien would never mention something as gross as an 'arm pit'), and he had decided he'd seen enough. "Well, it's been wonderful chatting with you again, O Smaug the Floccinaucinihilipilificated," Bilbo blurted hurriedly as he began edging away from the doorway. "Digesting a passel of ponies must require a good deal of intestinal fortitude, and a humble burglar, such as myself, would make a poor dessert for one of your Pecksniffian Torpidity."

Now, Smaug was not entirely sure what 'floccinaucinihilipilificated' meant exactly, but as an ardent student of Latin etymology, he knew it wasn't a compliment, and as far as 'Pecksniffian Torpidity', he was familiar enough with Dickensian nomenclature to know that it was a direct insult. Smaug roared and sent a plume of flame roaring down the hall after the frantically fleeing Bilbo, who barely escaped being a Hobbit Flambé. The poor, scorched Halfling collapsed in the arms of his Dwarven comrades, who tried desperately to revive the woozy Bilbo, but all they could get out of him for some time were offhand mumbled lyrics: "Fire on the mountain…run, boys, run…dragon's in the house…of the Dwarven son…" When he at last opened his eyes, Bilbo looked up at the white-bearded Balin, and began referring to him as Charlie Daniels. This, of course, greatly concerned the Dwarves; after all, what good was a demented burglar?

But eventually Bilbo came to his senses and began relating the conversation he had had with Smaug, particularly regarding the large bare spot he had spied on the dragon's chest. Unfortunately, every time he began to speak, the annoying little thrush broke another snail shell on the rocks at his feet. "What a damn annoying bird," Bilbo groused. "I believe the little stool pigeon is spying on us." So saying, he tossed a rock at the thrush, but it ducked.

"No, no, no!" Thorin said as he stopped Bilbo from chasing the bird off. "Thrushes are friendly and of a magical and ancient lineage in these parts. It is said that in the olden days the Men of Dale had the ability to speak with thrushes. They were often used as messengers, flying back and forth from Dale to Laketown."

Bilbo begrudgingly dropped the stone he was about to fling and scowled at the bird. The thrush, for its part, cocked its head and looked sidelong at Bilbo. "Asshole!" it chirped in annoyance, and then flew off without uttering another word.

As for Smaug, he now was certain where up in the mountain the secret door lay, and he flew like the wind to the western spur of Erebor, and smashed and burned and crushed the hidden vale and buried the hidden door beneath tons of rubble. The Dwarves were now trapped inside the mountain!

After the dust inside the corridor settled, the terrified Dwarves built a small fire and sat cowering together quietly as the gathering shadows danced demonically across the walls. Dwalin had been lost in thought for quite a long time, and at last he broke the silence. "Look, perhaps if we build a bridge…"

"Oh, would you please shut up!" Thorin growled as he rolled his eyes.


	21. Chapter 21

**Chapter 21: The Point At Which The Story Gets Definitely Silly**

Narrator #4 was in a terrible spot. Here he was, limping to the cusp of chapter twenty-one with no real end in sight, and the original Hobbit had lasted only nineteen chapters! The crotchety publisher – a shrewish woman with limited vision who counted words as a miser counts pennies -- was constantly harping on him, demanding in no uncertain terms that the story had better reach a stunning climax, and soon, or else a fifth narrator would be hired to draw the tale to a swift, and financially satisfactory, conclusion. With limited means and precipitous time constraints, Narrator #4 did what previously had been unthinkable: he would go to the source, the progenitor, the promethean creator who had lit the spark that set this tale aflame.

No, silly, he didn't dig up Tolkien's corpse for a one-sided chat at tea (as morbidly humorous as that moldering meeting might be); rather, he paid a visit to Stratford-on-Avon and the _Oxfordshire Sanitarium for the Literary and Criminally Insane_. Having received a thorough orientation from the facility's administrator, and duly warned to keep fingers and other bodily extremities away from the cell doors, Narrator #4 strode warily through the shabby warren of hallways and corridors in search of his reluctant muse. The place reeked of antiseptic and urine, an oddly pungent combination found almost exclusively in hospitals and kennels. The halls were dimly lit by fluorescents that hissed and blinked as if they were as mad as the occupants, and as he passed each cell, he overheard mutterings and mumblings, shouts and accusations, and literary criticisms standard for both an asylum and the London Times:

"It was a dark stormy night. It was a dark stormy night. It was a dark stormy night. It was a dark stormy night…"

"An ellipsis is a series of three points with spaces between them inserted into a quotation to indicate the omission of material from the original…"

"Gertrude Stein has often been dubbed 'The Mother of Modernism,' though there is a sense in which she also spawned a great deal of the plurality of postmodern society, not to mention the disembodied eclecticism of the Internet. I, on the other hand, would refer to her as the 'mama of Dada', Dadaism being the uncanny ability to neatly frame steaming piles of manure and peddling it as art to a public more than willing to ignore the smell – if only to be perceived as having good taste. It was not an artistic or literary movement; it was a bowel movement..."

Through an endless procession of halls, lobbies and corridors, Narrator #4 came at last to a dead end, and the final cell. In place of the usual metal grating, the cell was encased in thick Plexiglas, the type one finds protecting immigrant cashiers in rundown convenience stores in any high-crime neighborhood, and inside the paper-strewn cubicle sat a solitary figure seemingly engrossed in writing some great epic. But narrator #4 quickly noticed that the man could not be writing anything, for in place of a pen or a pencil, the manic hand that was fervently scribbling was holding a drinking straw, and the page remained blank.

"The guards took away all my writing utensils," the man said quietly, not bothering to look up. "It seems the administrator was quite upset that I attempted to use his forehead as a storyboard. I guess you could say I got under his skin."

Narrator #4 moved to reply, but the man behind the glass interrupted him, saying, "I knew you would be coming. It was only a matter of time. And I have time, but you don't."

Narrator #4 made another attempt to speak, but was again cut off. "My story…the story…the Hobbit parody…is floundering, is it not?"

"Well, no, not actually floundering," Narrator #4 sputtered.

"Nonsense! You would not be here if it were going great guns."

"Well, it is getting a tad bit overlong," Narrator #4 replied rather defensively, "but the writing is fine!"

"Is it now?" the man replied with a wry smile. "And you've moved through different elements of Pythonesque humor: mock-operettas, witty anachronisms, idiomatic and colloquial dialogue, transvestitism and fart jokes?"

"Yes…yes, all those. I've even resorted to puns with dragon oronyms."

"Tsk, tsk, and now you need a nude erection…I mean, new direction?" the man chuckled. "You've hit a brick wall, eh? Or rather, the writing is on the wall, and the medusa has trapped you in her stony gaze?"

"Yes," Narrator #4 sighed with a shiver, recalling the last meeting with his gorgonish publisher, "and now I need your help."

The man bolted up from his bedside and beamed victoriously. Reaching underneath his shabby mattress, the man retrieved a coffee-stained manila envelope bulging with paper. "I have taken great pains to hide this," the man whispered, evincing a memory of some personal trauma. "Fortunately, the guards rarely perform cavity searches." So saying, he jammed the envelope through a metal door flap usually meant for dishes.

Narrator #4 gingerly lifted the envelope with two fingers as if he were picking up a soiled diaper.

"Careful with that manuscript," the man hissed. "The editor who last read it did not fare so well. I ate his liver with some fava beans and a nice chianti."

Narrator #4 smiled uneasily at the cinematic allusion and replied, "I don't like liver, personally – or in person, for that matter."

"Oh, it's wonderful smothered in onions and catsup. I would have had more; unfortunately the police came during the second course."

"Yes, well, I have to go. I am sure it's time for your medication, or lobotomy, or whatever."

"Ahem."

Narrator #4 smacked his lips drowsily, trying to relieve the dread cotton mouth that insidiously encroaches on one's salivary glands during sleep.

"Ahem!"

He groaned groggily, stiffly shifting his painfully indented elbows off the hard edge of his desk.

"Damn it, man, must we sit about here all night?"

"Oh, sorry, have you been waiting long?"

Thorin, red-faced and indignant, growled, "While you've been pleasantly napping, we've been stuck here in this unpleasant hole wondering if and when we will be eaten by Smaug!"

"I am dreadfully sorry, but…"

"Look, have a 'Silence-of-the-Lambs-Revisited' dream sequence on your own time."

"B-a-a-h, b-a-a-h, b-a-a-h," Bombur bleated mockingly.

"Certainly, I'll get right back to it...the story, that is."

"Bloody fan-fic amateur!"

"Now wait just a moment!"

"No, I've waited quite long enough!" Thorin bellowed. "Where is Narrator #1? The story moved along much better with him."

"Well, if you must know, Mister Smarty-Dwarf, he's in an insane asylum, charged with cannibalism!"

"And Narrator #2?"

"He was eaten by Narrator #1."

"Ooooh! talk about yer bitin' satire," Bombur interrupted.

"Shut-up!" Thorin spat, and then glared back at Narrator #4. "What about Narrator #3?"

"He's in hiding for fear of being eaten by Narrator #1."

"We want Narrator #3 back."

"You've got to be joking."

"No, I am not," Thorin said forcefully, and in a fit of pique plopped down next to the sputtering campfire. Jutting his whiskered jaw forward in indignation, he loudly exclaimed, "and I shan't be moving from this spot until you are replaced by Narrator #3!"

"You…you can't be serious. I am the narrator; you must do what I say!"

Gloin then stood up. "Well, technically speakin', 'ee don't 'ave to follow your lead," the dwarf stated adopting a rather official tone. "As union steward for the _Dwarves with Limited Speaking Roles_, I concur with Thorin's assessment 'o' the situation – even if 'ee is management and all. My comrades and I in the DWLSR support Thorin's right for this 'ere sit-down strike, and in the fraternal bonds 'o' Dwarfhood, we'll be joinin' 'im in 'is struggle against oppression -- or narration as the case may be."

"Hear, hear! Hear, hear!" the _Dwarves with Limited Speaking Roles_ all shouted in unison (and in the process used up their remaining lines).

"Please, please -- let's be reasonable!" Narrator #4 cried.

But the Dwarves ignored the narrator's ardent plea and began singing 'We Shall Overcome' (as they were now on strike, the DWLSR were no longer bound by contractual agreements).

Narrator #4 became angry. "Look, if you don't get moving, I'll have Smaug come back and burn you all to cinders!"

"HELL NO, WE WON'T GO! HELL NO, WE WON'T GO! HELL NO, WE WON'T GO!"

"I'll show you!" Narrator #4 shrieked, "I'll show you all!" And with winged speed, the narrator began manically pecking away at his keyboard.

~ooOOooOOoo~

In the meantime, the malevolent Smaug was well on his way to Laketown, endeavoring once and for all to crush the impudent Men who had dared aid the Dwarves in their failed attempt to retake Erebor (or whatever it was they were doing lurking about in that nettlesome corridor). As the great golden dragon hovered above Long Lake getting a lay of the land, he was spotted by a pair of alert guards. Well, semi-alert actually, or half-dozing more likely. In any case, in their drowsing, lackadaisical manner, they noticed something peculiar.

**Guard #1:** Look up there, what's that I see?  
Something moves above the clouds quite unnaturally.

**Guard #2:** I see naught but wisps of clouds.  
Now please, I'm trying to nap, so don't be loud.

**Guard #1: **Right up there, you horse's ass --  
The moon, it darkened as a shadow passed!

**Guard #2: **Horse's ass?

**Guard #1:** Yes, horse's ass.

**Guard #2: **Well, I aint seen nuffin',  
And aint nuffin' passed!

**Guard #1:** Nuffin's passed?

**Guard #2: **No, nuffin's passed!

Just then, Bard passed the guard post, bemoaning his fate as usual.

**Bard:** Don't cry for me dear old Laketown,  
The truth is I'm still not famous!  
All through my poor days,  
My bare existence.  
I have no promise --  
I'm really listless.

**Guard #1:** 'Ere now Bard, I know it's late,  
And I hate to interrupt you bemoanin' yer fate,  
But look up yon, when clouds have passed --  
There's something strange to see at last.

**Bard:** Rows and floes of angel hair,  
And ice cream castles in the air,  
And feather canyons ev'rywhere --  
I've looked at clouds that way.

But now they only block the sun,  
They rain and snow on ev'ryone,  
So many things I would have done,  
But clouds got in my way.  
I've looked at clouds from both sides now,  
From up and down, and still somehow  
It's cloud illusions I recall --  
I really dont know clouds at all.

**Guard #2:** 'Ees gone funny.

Yes, perhaps Bard had 'gone funny', but in truth, the bedraggled bowman saw naught but clouds. Because, at the last moment, the dragon Smaug had decided to forestall his attack on Laketown, and flew swiftly back to Erebor.

"I did WHAT?" Smaug growled in fury as he halted abruptly in mid-air.

"You…ummm…decided to fly back to Erebor."

"I have done no such thing!" Smaug boomed.

"Yes, you have."

"No, I have not!"

"Oh, but you most certainly have."

"I beg to differ, I most certainly have not!"

"Have!"

"Have not!"

"Yes, you have. You have got the sinking feeling that even now the Dwarves have overrun the Lonely Mountain, and are presently fortifying their position for an inevitable siege."

"Hmmm…perhaps you are right…"

"Of course I am right; I am the narrator, after all!"

Narrator #4 snickered coldly as Smaug heeded his subtle machinations and flew with great haste back to Erebor. Narrator #4 would soon exact his revenge on the stubborn Dwarves!


	22. Chapter 22

**Chapter 22: POOF! The Tragic Dragon**

Bilbo stretched and sighed, then began humming an errant tune and fidgeting in a manner usually reserved for tedious family functions, such as when the Sackville-Bagginses had stayed overlong at Bag End -- actually, every stay by the Sackville-Bagginses was overlong, and Bilbo was continually having to take inventory of the silverware. But Bilbo was unused to unionism, labor strikes and other peculiar Dwarvish institutions ('labor unrest' in the Shire usually amounted to the gardener drinking too much coffee and overzealously trimming the hedges), and the Hobbit was on the verge of abandoning the Dwarves' inane quest altogether.

"I think I'll mosey down the corridor and take a look-see at the main hall," Bilbo said with an off-handed yawn. "I don't think Smaug has returned, and earlier I had noticed many interesting artifacts scattered about."

Thorin was about to protest the Hobbit's apparent break in solidarity, but Bilbo's comment intrigued the Dwarf and overrode any perceived indiscretion. "Interesting artifacts, you say?" he asked, failing miserably to sound nonchalant.

"Oh my, yes!" Bilbo replied with genuine enthusiasm. "There were piles of glimmering gold and glittering jewels -- scads of them!"

Thorin's mouth began to water. "Glimmering? Glittering?"

"Gleaming and glistening, even!"

The only sound in the corridor was the dripping of drool as all the Dwarves were now salivating in Pavlovian anticipation.

"Well, perhaps taking a peep at our long-lost treasure will not aversely affect our sit-down strike," Thorin stated reasonably.

"Speakin' for the rank-and-file," Gloin added with his usual officiousness, "an exploratory review by the strike committee inventoryin' said treasure would not, in my 'umble opinion, detract from the objectives set forth in this 'ere boycott against the narration; on the contrary, it would en'ance and otherwise aid in the negotiations whenever said narrator returns for the arbitration inevitable in a situation such as we 'ave 'ere."

"Well then, there you have it…I suppose." Thorin replied with an oblivious shrug. "Let's get going."

But suddenly a seismic occurrence of great magnitude rocked the mountain. The stone walls of the hallway quivered and quaked, and the eerie sound of an anguished moan reverberated through the darkness.

"What in blazes is that?" Thorin shouted, straining to be heard over the banshee wail. "Has Smaug returned?"

No, it was not Smaug; rather, it was a deus ex machina of monumental proportions. You see, the incessant and annoying interruptions by the impertinent narrators of this piece had caused a rift in the time/space continuum, allowing the agitated ghost of J.R.R. Tolkien (who was already rolling over in his grave due to the liberties taken with his classic tale), to return momentarily within the very fabric of the story itself. With his pipe clenched firmly in his teeth and a thumb in the fob pocket of his colorful waistcoat, the _professor_ _emeritus vita_ made a series of grunts, mumbles and throat-clearing exhalations approximating the inarticulate speech of an Oxford Don. This garbled bit of Britannic babble had a profound effect on Smaug. In a fluid motion of startling abruptness, the dragon abandoned his impromptu return to Erebor and ate Narrator #4 in a single, savage gulp. Then without further ado, Smaug continued onward to Laketown, thus returning to the original plot of the story. Tolkien snorted in satisfaction, but before returning to his perpetual rest, he thoughtfully tapped the ash and dottle from the bowl of his pipe into his cupped palm. Reverently, he blew the dusty remains of the pipeweed skyward. The ash swirled and pirouetted on a vagrant breeze, a slow, mad dance of metamorphosis, slowly binding and building as phoenix-like it assumed the form of a corporeal being: Narrator Omega, the quintessence of omniscient and interruption-free narration. Tolkien winked and began to fade as he absentmindedly rubbed his hand on his tweed jacket. Supper was on the table, and Edith would be waiting.

~ooOOooOOoo~

Meanwhile, back at Laketown, the two guards continued their UFO debate:

**Guard #1: **Don't go breaking my balls.

**Guard #2: **I didn't say that you lied.

**Guard #1: **Oh funny, you claim I'm crazy!

**Guard #2: **Either that, or you're high.

**Guard #1: **Don't go breaking my balls.

**Guard #2: **You've been seeing things.

**Guard #1: **I tell you, I saw what I saw!

**Guard #2: **You're just hallucinating.

**Laketown Chorus:** Oooo-hooo, nobody saw it! Nobody saw!

**Guard #1: **It flew up and down.

**Guard #2: **You're a delusional clown!

**Guard #1: **It flew in stops and starts.

**Guard #2: **You're a drunken old fart.

**Laketown Chorus: **Oh! You drunken old fart!

Irritated by the Men of Laketown's apparent inability to have even the simplest dialogue without breaking into song, Smaug swooped down and burned the blithering guards to croonless cinders. Then with a mighty roar and a sweep of his massive bat wings, the dragon attacked the piers and pilings of Laketown itself. The horrific event was recorded for posterity soon after in a minstrel's ballad:

_When Smaug came out to Laketown,_  
_He flew up and down the shoreline._  
_The baked wreckage burnt in profile --_  
_He ate a troop of mimes._

_Rank sacks and broken rudders_  
_Floated to the shore from town,_  
_Cos' some monster like Godzilla_  
_Burned the place to the ground._

_Smaug on the water --_  
_A dragon in the sky!_  
_Smaug on the water..._

_He burned down the Master's house,_  
_Who cried as it toppled down._  
_A fool named Bard was running in and out, _  
_Trying to save the stunned crowd…_

"STOP SINGING!" Smaug bellowed indignantly. "How will anyone take this epic struggle of good and evil seriously if you choreograph the fiery battle with pop music and doggerel verse?"

~ooOOooOOoo~

The insatiable lure of gold overcame any trepidation the Dwarves had for moving forward. Once they had reached the main hall, Bilbo was soon appalled by the Dwarves' brazen aurophilicity. They dove into hills of gold, they swam in rivers of gold and they bathed in pale pools of gold to the point of obscenity; in fact, Bombur was found in a corner dry-humping a sack of coin (thus giving new meaning to the term 'booty'). In disgust, Bilbo left the Dwarves to their gilty pleasure, and explored the vast cavern alone.

Suddenly, Bilbo's wandering eye caught something glinting strangely in the shadows; odd because the object emitted a faint light which pierced the darkness seemingly on its own accord, as no other light source was discernible. He reached down into a pile of oddments, and to his amazement uncovered a flawless gemstone the size of an emu's egg. Well, perhaps not an egg of an emu, which was unheard of in a place like Eriador, but its extinct cousin, the equally flightless moa. On further consideration, it certainly was not the size of an egg of a giant moa of the species _Dinornis novaezealandiae_, which would be ridiculously large for a smallish Hobbit to carry; rather, it was most likely the size of a squatter species like the North Island big-billed moa, which was a bit larger than a modern double-wattled cassowary. In any case, the damn gem was quite large and breathtakingly beautiful (which moas certainly were not, even as cute little chicks), and it did spark and glimmer as if fire was encased in the heart of the very living crystal.

Feeling certain that he had satisfactorily completed his contractual obligations for the Dwarves, Bilbo considered the sparkling stone just compensation for his burgling work. Nevertheless, the Hobbit did feel a bit queasy about pocketing the gem; however, the size of the stone outweighed the burden of his scruples, and he hid it without further irritating his tender sensibilities.

~ooOOooOOoo~

By now, Smaug had laid waste to the greater portion of Laketown, and most of the frightened townsfolk were scurrying about like bedraggled rats, jumping into the water and crawling aboard dinghies, dugouts, curraghs and canoes in an effort to escape the conflagration. The great golden dragon relished the thought of picking off the survivors one-by-one in their miserable little boats.

_"They are sitting ducks, the rowing schmucks," he was Smaugishly humming.  
"They're finding out now that no assistance is coming."  
"They're waking up to the fact, and I know just what they'll do,  
All the Men down in Laketown will all cry boo-hoo!"  
"That's a sound," smiled Smaug, "that I simply must hear."  
So he paused, and Smaug put a claw to his ear.  
And he did hear a sound rising over the lake.  
It started out low, but the sound made him quake.  
The sound wasn't sad! Why, this sound sounded merry.  
It couldn't be so, but it WAS merry. Very!  
He stared down at Laketown. Smaug popped his eyes.  
Then he shook. What he heard was a stunning surprise!  
Every Laker down in Laketown, the tall and the small,  
Was singing! Without anymore town at all!  
He hadn't crushed the bright spirit of Men.  
Somehow or other it rose once again.  
And Smaug with his Smaug-tail swishing the empty air,  
Flew puzzling and puzzling: "Why not despair?"  
"I torched down their buildings! I burnt up their signs!  
I frizzled their hair and ate up their mimes!  
And Smaug hovered puzzling until his puzzler was sore,  
Then a thought came to him that he really abhorred.  
And he shivered right down to his dragonish core: _  
_"I really can't stand this damn singing no more!"_

_But Bard in his nightshirt had readied a trap,  
He had had quite enough of this dragonish crap.  
For close to his ear came a bird with such chatter --  
It was a thrush! Was it rabid? What the hell was the matter?  
But the melancholy Bowman realized in a flash  
He understood the thrush, who was not talking trash.  
The bird spoke quite quickly, but without evident jest,  
That Smaug was vulnerable in the hollow of his breast.  
The moon above the smokes on the roiling black lake  
Gave a glimmer of hope in its shimmering wake.  
When what to Bard's wond'ring eyes should appear,  
But Smaug's bare armpit just ready to spear!  
Yet the dragon flew over so lively and quick  
That Bard had missed his chance -- he felt like a dick!  
More rapid than beagles…eagles…the dragon it came,  
And it roared and it fumed and it shouted rude names:  
"Come Bardling the offspring of trailer trash spawn!  
You Tinker, you Stinker, You're a dupe and a pawn!  
I'll burn up your porch; I'll burn down your halls,  
And dash out your brains 'gainst the smoldering walls!"  
But Bard with his bowstring straining so taut  
With a black arrow trained, so cleverly wrought,  
That it always returned from wherever it flew --  
He would slay the foul dragon and get it back too!  
Bard drew back his finger and let the bolt fly,  
And it hummed and it whistled as it raced through the sky.  
Finding its mark in the bare hollow of its breast,  
It pierced Smaug's black heart through his cavernous chest.  
Smaug's eyes, how they bulged, his rage was quite scary,  
And in the throes of death, he sought to bury  
The town he had burned with rapacious fire,  
And the concussive explosion proved to be his funeral pyre.  
And Bard heard Smaug exclaim as he sunk out of sight,  
"O, blessed waters of oblivion, no more singing tonight!"_

Back in Erebor, a contented Bombur was lying next to a rumpled sack of coin, languidly smoking a cigarette. But he looked up in consternation and grumbled, "'Ere now, what's all this 'bout recyclin' ole bits 'o' Christmas fluffery? Aint you mined that vein once too often?"

The narrator smiled indulgently, but said not a word; instead, he merely ended the chapter.


	23. Chapter 23

**Chapter 23: I've Fallen and I Can't Get Up!**

Naturally, Smaug's fiery fall destroyed what was left of the burning hulk of Laketown. The sodden survivors stood in quivering clumps along the shoreline -- benumbed, bedraggled and bereft of property – gaping hopelessly as the smoldering remains of their homes sank under the tremendous weight of the dead dragon into the turbulent, fuming waters of Long Lake. Poor Bard got a lukewarm reception as he dragged himself from the roiling lake, his singular triumph marred by depressed property values and a poor showing in the important 35-44 age demographic (back then, folks were usually dead by 45). Based upon early polls, the Master of Laketown was quick to capitalize on the discontent; even now he was conducting a propaganda campaign to blunt the achievements of Bard.

"Oh sure, he's killed the dragon," the wily Master said,  
"But Bard has brought the dragon's doom down upon our heads!  
I have no wish to denigrate him, but let us limit loud acclaim --  
This town's a bloody disaster and Bard alone should bare the blame!"

But the Bowman was not rattled by the Master's venomous sneer,  
And met with jest the crux of the politician's pointed smear:  
"Your leadership, I note, was missed in Smaug's defeat,  
Yet never have I seen you fly so quickly on your feet."

"'Tis true," said a toothless geezer (who hadn't been polled as of yet),  
"He swam so quickly through the water, his robes did not get wet!"  
"The master ran for office," said the geezer's portly wife,  
"But it seemed he ran much faster when running for his life."

"I am but a servant of the people," the angry Master cried,  
"I deal in business not swords, and Laketown has thus thrived!  
Now tax and trade will suffer, whilst our community starves –  
Blame it all on Bard and those confusticated dwarves!"

But Bard ignored the pundit's ploys and set about aiding the poor survivors of Laketown, setting up temporary shelters along the shore and sending out hunting parties to gather food for the dispossessed and starving. As luck would have it, the ElvenKing was taking a leisurely stroll with his army and came upon the grim scene. Beholding the devastation caused by Smaug's attack and cataclysmic demise, the ElvenKing immediately offered the assistance of his Silvan folk.

"Ve yust 'appened tø be en der næberhööd, und seein' våt's been göink øn, ve vere tinking yøu might be needin' zöme 'elp."

The Master of Laketown, ever one to ingratiate himself with a trading partner, pushed Bard out of the way and bowed to the ElvenKing.

"We thank thee O most gracious king, lord of ElvenHome,  
As you can see our prosperous town has sank beneath the foam."

The ElvenKing glared at the Master with some irritation and replied, "Vell, jah, I noticed dåt right öff der get gø. Und våt might ve dø tø be oof 'elp, eh?"

The Master bowed even lower, almost to the point of scraping the ground.

"Your offer at this trying time enhances thy noble throne --  
Would it be at all possible to float us a small loan?"

The ElvenKing frowned and turned to his captain, Götterdämmerungsdottir, and growled, "Vhy før is dis here öld feller schpækink en rhymes? 'Tis giffin' me der hædåche!"

Götterdämmerungsdottir rolled his eyes and whispered, "It is their idiom, sire -- they are a singing folk."

"A zingink vølk, eh? Dåt's eefen seelier dån dem dere collöqvial-schpækink dörfs ve håd over åvhile back." But the ElvenKing, in the interest of speeding up the story and speaking of his main fascination, gold, said to the Master and Bard, "Vell, inschtæd öv geevink yøu a løan (vhich åint gonnå happen nø vays), vhy døn't ve yust reconnoiter down dere by dåt øl' Schmåug's lær en yønder Mööntins? Dere'll be löads 'ø' gulden schtuff schtrewn aböut, fer schure!"

The Master and Bard stood with their mouths agape, and then they turned in puzzlement to Götterdämmerungsdottir, who replied with a sigh, "The King suggests we go to Smaug's lair in the mountains, wherein lies loads of golden schtuff…errrr…stuff."

"Jah!" said the ElvenKing excitedly, "den ve schplit der bøøty eefen-Schteefen, und yøu kin schpend yøur'n ås yøu vish."

"Shplitderbootyeefenshteefen?" Bard mumbled, trying vainly to follow the king's dialogue.

"Yookinshpendyornasyoovish?" The Master mouthed, as lost as Bard.

They again stared dumbly at Götterdämmerungsdottir, who in turn sought aid from his second-in-command, Fjalarvilhjálmsson. Fjalarvilhjálmsson merely shrugged and deferred to the third in command, Þórssonorðlenska, who bit his lip and gazed imploringly at the king. The ElvenKing hissed in vexation, and then said in slow phonetics, "Ve….schplit…der… bøøty…"

"I believe he means 'splinter booties'," Fjalarvilhjálmsson said, straining to hear.

"No, that makes no sense," argued Þórssonorðlenska, "It is in relation to gold, so he must mean 'split the booty'."

"Jah, jah!" said the ElvenKing, touching the tip of his nose with his index finger. "Und next: eefen…Schteefen."

"'Split-the-booty'…," Götterdämmerungsdottir said slowly, " 'even-Steven'?"

"Jah, gud, gud!" laughed the ElvenKing. "Und nøw, der låst pårt: yøu..."

"You," they all said in unison.

"…kin…" said the king.

"Can," they replied.

"schpend yøur'n …"

"Spend yours."

"…ås yøu…"

"As you."

"…vish."

"You can spend yours as you wish!" the group shouted triumphantly.

Fatigued, the ElvenKing called for a chair, but due to the destruction of Laketown and all its furnishings, none could be found. Instead, he used Þórssonorðlenska as an elvish ottoman, and added, "Hooo bøy! Dåt dere diålögue vås gruelink, mischtåke me nøt! Nøw, ve shuld be gettin' øur 'lil fannies en geår, jah? Time's å' våschtink!"

Ignoring the fact that he could understand little of what the ElvenKing just said, Bard was of the same mind as the King (even though he didn't know it); however, the scion of kings of Dale was concerned about one issue they had overlooked.

"There is one thing on my mind." The mighty bowman said,  
"Perhaps we should go to Erebor to aid the Dwarves instead."

"Der dörfs?" the ElvenKing scoffed, "dey åre burnt veenies en der schtømåch øv Schmåug!"

"Yes, dead," the Laketown Master slathered, with the lure of gold consumed,  
"But we shan't be charged with grave-robbery whilst ransacking their tomb.  
The Dwarves owe us grave recompense for the destruction previously mentioned,  
With were-gild we can reduce the deficit and restore my government pension!"

Despite his reservations, Bard knew that the greedy Master was at least correct regarding just compensation for the many lives lost and the sad survivors of Laketown. Satisfied that the refugees had shelter and were fed, Bard called forth all the men who were still hardy and hale (I suppose they might be called the _Laketownirrim_), and joined the ElvenKing and his army on the march to Erebor.

~OOooOOooOO~

Bilbo was feeling rather glum, or hungry – they were one in the same to a Hobbit. While the gleeful dwarves had been spending their time wallowing in gold and jewels like pygmy hippos in the mud of a watering hole, Bilbo had thought of nothing but breakfast. The very word had now become an abstraction to him, the sangreal of sunnier mornings back home delightfully engorged on bacon and biscuits and beautiful brown eggs, smoking peacefully on his front porch while the buttons on his burgeoning vest barely held from bursting. But, like all mirages, the vision faded. The bloated visage of Thorin, his bulky body barely contained in a magnificently bejeweled suit of mail and his beard jutting from a fierce helm, interrupted the wonderful dream.

"I say there, my dear Bilbo, let it not be said that dwarves do not fulfill their contractual obligations." The Dwarf King smiled broadly and held up a glittering shirt of mail. He then added, "We thank you for your efforts, Master Burglar, we would not have made it without you. Here's to a job well done!"

Bilbo cocked his eyebrow at Thorin's gift, then rolled his eyes. "Bleeding wonderful!" he finally cried. "I risk my life fighting Orcs and spiders, and have an extended witty dialogue with a dragon, and NOW someone decides to hand me some armor. Yes, it'll come in quite handy the next time I fall off a barstool at the Green Dragon."

"But…" Thorin sputtered, "this is made of mithril, the truesilver of the Dwarves."

"Bah, it won't fetch more than a few pounds in Michel Delving. Perhaps if I melted it down and made a candelabra out of it…"

"Bilbo," Thorin barked indignantly, "you shall do no such thing! This mail corselet is made of hammered mithril, which is rarer than gold, and worth a king's ransom!"

But Bilbo suddenly remembered he had pocketed a great, gleaming gem earlier and felt rather abashed at his ungratefulness. "Well then…ummm…all things considered…I accept your wonderful gift. Thank you, Thorin."

Thorin scowled at the hobbit and grumpily tossed him the mithril shirt. "Put it on," the dwarf grumbled, walking away, "we are not out of danger yet!"

Bilbo complied quickly, realizing the dragon had merely stepped out for a bit and would soon be back to wreak his vengeance on the dwarves. With this in mind, Thorin guided the band to the great gates of Erebor, there to better defend their treasure against the coming assault of Smaug. Perched atop the gate was the annoying thrush that had mocked Bilbo, and with him was a feathered friend: an ancient, bald, one-eyed raven that reminded the Hobbit of road-kill on a busy Hobbiton thoroughfare – all that was missing was the swarming flies. Perhaps its feet are nailed to the perch, Bilbo thought to himself; but the dead-seeming thing actually moved haltingly and crowed hoarsely at the dwarves. To Bilbo's surprise, he could actually understand the raven's harsh speech.

"Greetings, Thorin!" the raven squawked as if clearing phlegm from the back of his throat. "I am Roäc, son of Carc, chief of the great ravens of the mountain."

"Yes, well I remember Carc," Thorin said fondly, "ever were his kin the loyal allies of we dwarves. What news do you bring, Roäc?"

"Smaug is dead," Roäc croaked, "the thrush saw his fall at Laketown."

"Then there's no worries!" Bombur cheered. "We aint gotta fight no dragon!"

But in the midst of the dwarves' celebration, Roäc screeched, "Wait, there's more!"

"Speak then, Roäc," Thorin replied impatiently.

"There was great slaughter caused by the dragon, and Laketown has been destroyed. Even now, men of Laketown are marching towards Erebor with a host of Elves. The men are seeking part of your treasure in compensation for the deaths they blame on the dwarves. We ravens wish for peace among all folk after the long desolation of the dragon, but you must appease the men in their sorrow, and it may cost you dearly in gold."

"Well, those thieves won't get a copper penny from my treasury!" Thorin growled belligerently. "We are in possession of our birthright – finders' keepers, losers' weepers, and all that."

The thrush shook its head in disgust and the old raven hacked violently and glared sternly at Thorin out of his one good eye. "Far be it from me to question your wisdom in this matter," Roäc rasped, "but there are too few of you dwarves, and many men and elves that are coming to your doorstep. Enjoy your treasure in haste, and repent your folly in leisure, I say."

The angered Thorin considered throttling the petulant bird, but then thought better of it. "What you say is true – in part," Thorin said shrewdly, "we are too small a band to defend against an army. Roäc, send a message to my cousin, Dain of the Iron Hills. Tell him of our plight, and make haste to aid us with whatever force he can muster!"

But Roäc sat as stern as stone atop the gate.

"Well, get a move on!" Thorin barked, but still the ancient raven was unmoved.

"Perhaps he's really dead now," Bilbo whispered.

"Or maybe he's pinin' for the fjord," Dwalin added, still trying desperately to add something pertinent to the conversation.

Roäc sighed, indicating he was still, in fact, living, and then croaked, "You will need a magic word to make me do your bidding, Thorin. This is a fantasy, after all."

Thorin and the dwarves huddled together for a strategy session, and then began reciting various Dwarven spells, charms and hexes in hopes of coming up with the suitable magic word, but to no avail. After about an hour of shouting out broken bits of arcane phrases, the exhausted dwarves slumped to the stone floor, defeated. Finally, in vexation Thorin pleaded, "Oh, PLEASE would you send a message, Roäc?"

Roäc bowed and replied, "And there you have it!"

"Have what?" Thorin sputtered.

"The magic word," the raven replied.

"The magic word is 'what'?" Bombur said uncertainly.

"No, 'it' is it, it is," Dwalin chimed in, but he became confused with relative pronouns and impersonal or intransitive verbs, and fell silent.

Roäc glanced over to the thrush, who shrugged his wings indifferently and flew away. The raven squawked angrily and relieved himself on the rusted iron railing of the gate. The slowly dripping swirl of black and white guano made Bilbo sick to his stomach. With a croaking crow that sounded very much like "Bah", Roäc the raven flew off to deliver the urgent message.

"Now we'll never know the magic word," Balin sighed dejectedly.

"Oh would you please shut-up!" Thorin snapped.


	24. Chapter 24

**Chapter 24: Der K****ö****mmen a'fore der Sturm und Drang**

With the dawn (a common starting phrase for such a chapter) came the army of Elves and their allies, the Men of Laketown, marching in orderly rows up to the great Dwarven gates of Erebor. Forewarned, the dwarves naturally were aware of their arrival, having spied their ascent up the Lonely Mountain since the day previous. But the dwarves, a stubborn lot if ever there was one, decided not to answer the calls to come forth from various elvish and mannish heralds who, with the long-practiced parlance of those acquainted with the emissarial trade, sought redress for injuries both physical and fiscal caused by the dwarves against Elves and Men with an audacious array of articles and addenda the length and breadth of which would have made a Wall Street attorney blush (if such an attorney could, in fact, blush): the stirring up of dragons and/or other such mythical beasts in order to profit by said mythical beast's timely absence; having stirred up the aforementioned dragon with propaganda, slurs and untruths, causing the deluded creature to center its malicious activity on the innocent, thrifty and utterly harmless folk of Laketown; for all that, bearing full responsibility for the destruction and carnage at Laketown; absconding, then riding, barrels on waterways without a license or proper safety equipment; eating, drinking and feasting in Laketown under false pretenses; attempting to build a cantilever bridge underground for the express purpose of escaping lawful confinement; being disturbers-of-the-peace and damnable loiterers in the king's forest; acquainting themselves with a Hobbit, which everyone knows is not a legendary creature at all, but a fictional character created by one John Ronald Reuel Tolkien, who started this whole mess in the first place; having said mythical-imposter Hobbit aid and abet said dwarves in said crimes, collusions and depravities mentioned heretofore; and, in any case, to seek a remunerated settlement against said criminally-disposed dwarves in an amount to be determined after the elvish accounting firm of Finwë, Elwë and Olwë conducts an audit on the contents of treasuries, caches, vaults and storerooms of Erebor, last resided in by one Smaug the Golden, dragon, deceased.

Yet for all the legal bluster and badinage of the hyperbolic heralds, the foreboding ramparts of Erebor remained silent, much to the consternation of the impatient ElvenKing. Deciding a more direct approach was necessary, the ElvenKing and Bard the Bowman trudged up to the gates and the king banged brazenly on the iron bars with the bejeweled hilt of his broadsword.

"Hey dere, yøu seely collöqvial-schpækink dörfs, umpen up dese here schtupid gåtes, eh? I ám för väntin' to tålk vit yøu!" he shouted at the unyielding stone and unbending metal. After a few moments without a reply, he added, "Ve knøw durn tootin' you aint burnt veenies en der schtömach of Schmaug, cös dat dere thrushy-bird told Bård der Bøhunk here dåt yøu vås 'live und kickin'."

Having had quite enough of the ElvenKing's atrocious accent, Thorin finally peered over the wall and shouted, "Get thee gone, ye usurpers, thieves and folk of a generally unsavory nature! Thou shalt not find the treasure thou seekest, for it is in the hands of the King of Durin's Folk; all thou shalt find here is blood and ignominy!"

"Whö ist dis here 'Eegnø Menæ' feller?" the ElvenKing whispered to his captain, Götterdämmerungsdottir. "He søme höt-schött dörf, or sumptin'?"

"Ignominy refers to great personal dishonor or humiliation, your majesty." Götterdämmerungsdottir replied. "I believe the dwarf is inferring that we shall meet our deaths if we stay here."

"Ve åint meetin' nø zuch ting, und dåt's fer schure!" the ElvenKing hissed indignantly, then he bellowed at Thorin, "Lookie here, preschtumpterøus dörf Keeng, vhy for yøu bein' grumptiøus undt schnötty? Ve yust be löökin' før to schåre dåt Schmaug's ill-gøtten bööty. T'åint like yer ærned der schtuff in der firscht plæz."

Thorin glared down in amazement at the ElvenKing. He looked over to Bombur and Gloin, who were equally at a loss, then Thorin shouted down at Götterdämmerungsdottir, "What did he just say?"

Götterdämmerungsdottir rolled his eyes and growled, "His majesty says you owe money -- pay up!"

"Dåt's certænly tåken liberties mit der paraphrasching," the ElvenKing groused.

But Bard the Bowman could see this type of bellicose banter was getting the negotiations nowhere. Taking it upon himself to assuage the ruffled feathers of the equally intransigent Elven and Dwarven kings, Bard lifted his voice to lighten the mood:

"_You say yes, I say no,  
You say stop, and I say go, go, go.  
Oh no!_

_You say goodbye and I say hello --_

_Hello, hello.  
I don't know why you say goodbye when I say hello --_

_Hello, hello.  
I don't why you say goodbye when I say hello._

_I say high (I say high), you say low (you say low),  
You say why, and I say I don't know.  
Oh no!_

_You say goodbye and I say hello…"_

The two sides -- the dwarves staring sternly down from their turrets and the bristling Elves encamped below -- stared at Bard with mouths agape.

"It's a catchy tune," Dwalin said finally and he hummed along.

"Someone stop him before he starts singing 'Give Peace a Chance'!" Thorin shouted.

"But I thought you loved Lennon?" Gloin said.

"Imagine no possessions? Bah! He was a bleeding communist!" Thorin grumbled. "This is some kind of mannish trick, and we need to get to the bottom of it." Then the DwarvenKing yelled, "You there, Bowman, what exactly are you on about?"

"Seely dörf keeng," the ElvenKing replied, "ev'ryfun knows der mun øv Lakkenburg are a zingink vølk."

"No, no, not that," Thorin sputtered, "besides the singing, I meant what was he trying to say? Lay off the lyrics, if you will, as it is hard to get the gist, what? Not to mention the copyright infringements!"

"This 'ole bloody parody is one long infringement," Bombur added.

But before they could further translate the muddle of bad accents and off-kilter lyricisms, the sound of trudging iron-shod boots and a martial tune echoed off the mountains.

"OH-WE-OH, YO-HUM, OH-WE-OH, YO-HUM, OH-WE-OH, YO-HUM."

"It's Dain and his doughty dwarves! We are saved!" Thorin shouted in relief.

"Why are dwarves always doughty?" Bilbo asked, but his query was met with cold stares.

"OH-WE-OH, YO-HUM, OH-WE-OH, YO-HUM, OH-WE-OH, YO-HUM."

They are singing the _Iron Hills Marching Song_!" Gloin said and clapped excitedly.

"It sounds more like the Wicked Witch's evil guards in the Wizard of Oz," Bilbo countered.

"No, stupid Hobbit," Thorin barked, "the Witch's guards were singing 'All we own, we owe her,' which is clearly not in context with this situation."

"Vell, dis schertainly plööps der monkey in der grease våt!" the ElvenKing said disgruntledly (funny thing about disgruntled – can one be 'gruntled'?).

"Your majesty," Götterdämmerungsdottir said thoughtfully (ignoring the grammatical aside altogether), "perhaps we should send a large contingent to head the advancing dwarves off. We obviously don't want them reaching the gates."

"Nein, nein," the ElvenKing replied sharply, "dåt vöuld be schtupid." He considered various tactics, stratagems and maneuvers carefully, and then said, "Våt ve shöuld be döin' is zendin' a bunch 'ö' guys yonder to hæd öv der onröösching dörfs. Dåt våy, der dörfs can't be reachin' der gates."

"Right, your majesty, I'll get right on it," the Captain sighed.

All this time it had become very clear to Bilbo that the situation had gotten out of hand, and blows would be struck simply because both sides were too stubborn to listen to reason – or to understand each other, in any case. He pulled the great gem he had pilfered from his pocket and stared at it in the darkness. It gleamed with a spectral intensity – a ghostly fire encased in crystal. Throughout the last few days in Erebor, Thorin had been seeking feverishly for a treasure he reverently referred to as the 'Arkenstone', the holy jewel of the dwarves. By all accounts, the Arkenstone could cure everything from cancer to constipation (without the bitter, mediciney aftertaste), and there were even reports that the stone was indeed the missing Silmaril the Noldor Maedhros tossed into the earth before committing suicide (this, of course, has since been rebutted by various Tolkien scholars as extemporaneous poop). The hobbit was now certain that he was in possession of that self same Arkenstone, as he had been quite regular since acquiring it.

Right then and there, Bilbo decided to take things into his own hands. If the dwarves would not listen to reason, then he would have to force their hands. The Arkenstone would be the powerful bargaining chip necessary in settling the stalemate and assuring no one got hurt. And so, Bilbo crept down the iron gate in the dead of night, while the sentry, the ever-vigilant Bombur, slept through his watch. He made his way stealthily down the mountain in true hobbit-fashion, and headed for the camp of the ElvenKing and Bard.

**And now for something completely different…**

Mary-Sue fanfiction -- can it be eradicated? Good evening, in this, the 167th and penultimate segment of this stunning expose, we shall identify various means and methods necessary in eliminating the writers Mary-Sue and her male authorial angstmate, Gary Stu, from foisting their literary bilge upon an audience already bludgeoned with an online experience saturated with an ever burgeoning blot of bad taste, and once again make the internet safe for Twittering, blogging, and amateur home pornography sites…the way god intended.

For the uninitiated, a Mary-Sue author spawns various unrealistic, and usually teenage, characters and inserts them like so many suppositories into an existing story -- such as Lord of the Rings, as a prime example -- for the express purpose of having a tediously clichéd adolescent romance with an established canon adult character. This type of romance, often referred to as a _Legolistic liaison_, involves a Mary-Sue character who more than likely will exhibit the following tendencies: godlike or 'uber' characteristics such as heightened acuities and bodily performance (ultrasonic hearing, laser vision, camel-like endurance, unlimited orgasms, etc.); a kinship of some sort to an existing character, such as Aragorn's melancholy half-sister, Elrond's love child, Galadriel's sister's daughter, Thranduil's abandoned son (and thus Legolas' stepbrother), or Sauron's sorceress daughter (Galadriel having been knocked up a few millennia back); violet eyes (particularly important if the angst-ridden heroine is blind); having to overcome tragic events not limited to rape, incest, attempted murder, maiming, mutilation, blinding, acne or amnesia (quite handy when engaging in incestuous encounters); the characters parents, if they are not an estranged existing main character in the plot, are dead, usually as a result of an attack by Orcs in the character's infancy; a predilection for unrequited love (hence, much melancholy); and a lustrously maned pony named Emily.

Neither bad reviews nor general condemnation has staved off the diabolical proliferation of the Mary-Sue; in fact, it is rather like spraying weed-killer on artificial floral arrangements. The infestation has become so prevalent that a Suefic like the novel 'Twilight' has become a bestseller (after all, vampires, being undead parasitic homicidal blood-sucking fiends, are merely misunderstood and need love too!). What then to do with the Mary-Sue, and its kissing cousins Angst-Sue, Self-Insertion-Sue (where the character is, in fact, the author), Canon-Sue, Villain-Stu, or Sue-done-it (a Mary-Sue mystery)? We spoke with Dr. Heinrich Weltschmerz-Von Fokken, an eminent psychiatrist noted for his treatment of high-risk Mary-Sue Fanfiction writers at the _Oxfordshire Sanitarium for the Literary and Criminally Insane._ When asked if there was a cure for _Melancholic Hyperliterary_ _Sueitism_, the good doctor sighed and answered simply in a heavy Bavarian accent, "Demned if I know. Vee just put zem to zleep like mad dogs."

And there you have it. We now return you to the program already in progress, 'Dancing With The Illegitimate Children of Washed-up Celebrities', followed by 'Nomads of The Gobi Desert Have Got Talent'.


	25. Chapter 25

**Chapter 25: The Peter Jackson Memorial Presumptive Oscar Winning CGI Epic Battle Sequence, as well as Inordinately Long Chapter Heading**

And so, Bilbo presented himself to Bard and the ElvenKing, yada, yada, yada…they tried to bribe Thorin with the Arkenstone, yada, yada, yada…it failed miserably and it looked as if war would break out between the dwarves and elves and men, yada, yada, yada…

"Hold on, just a moment," groused an old man in a grey cloak sitting outside a tent in the ElvenKing's camp. "That is no way to tell a story -- damned disrespectful if you ask me!"

The narrator (that would be Narrator #5), who had attempted to refrain from delving into editorial of a personal nature throughout the last several chapters, politely reminded the bearded gent that the parody had reached its twenty-fifth chapter, whereas the original tale had only required nineteen chapters to tell the same story.

"Bah, you're right," the old man grumbled dejectedly. "This has gotten tedious. Get it over with."

"Gandalf!" Bilbo shouted excitedly. "You have been missed – this whole quest has gotten ridiculous since you left." The hobbit paused to reflect a moment, then added, "Well…even more ridiculous since you left. The whole thing has been quite silly, really."

"What can one expect of a story revolving around hobbits and dwarves?" Gandalf spat. "An epic populated with squat, bearded folk and an equally stubby main character with hairy feet, all running about harum-scarum like addle-pated ninnies? It is preposterous! I need a new agent! I deserve a better role than this -- I've been in the Royal Shakespeare Company, I'll have you know!"

Bilbo, having no acquaintance with Shakespeare, but certain the reference was of a pejorative nature, decided to change the subject. "But...Gandalf, where have you been? Why did you leave?"

The wizard scowled and then sighed mournfully, "It was all the damned singing. Middle-earth has become reminiscent of an Off-Broadway 'Sweeney Todd' musical revival. This isn't Tolkien; it is Andrew Lloyd-Webber on crack!"

Bilbo considered correcting Gandalf about the Sweeney Todd remark (it was written by Stephen Sondheim, not Andrew Lloyd-Webber, after all), but he thought better of it, given the wizard's agitated state. "Well, whether the story is preposterous or not, we're in a real pickle, and that's putting it lightly. Thorin has got Dain's army behind him now, and soon the dwarves shall attack the elves and the men of Laketown. Gandalf, you have to do something! You've got to stop them from killing each other!"

"I don't have to do anything," Gandalf said with a knowing smile, while condescendingly patting the troubled hobbit's head. "The narrator will supply the appropriate response to our problem."

With that prescient but abrupt segue, the narrator, having a handily prepared response at the ready, launched into a grim description of events occurring elsewhere. It would seem that the son of Marian, the slain Goblin King (also named Marian, as Goblins weren't terribly imaginative), had commanded all the goblins from every part of the Misty Mountains – even Mount Gundabad, which was rather like an orkish ski resort – to join him in attacking the dwarves of Erebor and avenging the murder of his father, which had maid Marian very angry (he-he, sorry about that). Among the great goblinish army that seethed like fierce black locusts along the nightmarishly undulating horizon were the wargs (who were still quite upset about the burning pinecone incident of Chapter Ten), and above the beastly battalions hovered horrid squadrons of vampire bats, which seemingly migrated from a tropical to a temperate zone simply to take part in the carnage.

"Ummm…Gandalf," Bilbo peeped fearfully, "this was not the type of response I was seeking."

"Look at the bright side, dear Bilbo," Gandalf chirped cheerfully. "Just think of all the thousands of singers who shall be bumped off in a single engagement."

This did little to assuage Bilbo's apprehension. Fortunately, his friends wisely decided to call a parlay in lieu of this imminent threat. Dain of the Iron Hills met Bard and the ElvenKing in the camp of the elves to devise a strategy against the oncoming orcs and wargs.

"I'm a' tinkin' dem Oörcs mit der Vörks vill æt us if giffen 'alf der schænce," the ElvenKing said worriedly.

Dain, who was still quite suspicious of the elves (and did not hold them in high esteem, in any case), scoffed at the ElvenKing, "Nay, laddie, Orcs dinna eat wi' forks. 'Tis the beasties' uncouth manner tha' they eat wi' their ain two haunds."

The ElvenKing scowled at Dain and replied, "Nein, nein, seely collöqvial-schpækink dörf, I zed Vörks, dem schnårly doggie-like tings mit der vångs und hær!"

"Och!" Dain cried in dismay. "D'ye ken the færy's blather? I dinna catch nae word 'o' it. 'Tis nae guid spaekin' whit th' maun, as it's sure tae taek a forenicht tae lairn his brogue. Can ye scrive it doun, please? We hae tae get gang!"

The irritated ElvenKing turned to his captain, Götterdämmerungsdottir, who shrugged and replied, "I am at a loss as well, your majesty. I was never one for Northumbrian or Highland dialects."

But with the timely aid of Gandalf (who threatened to strike anyone dead with a bolt of lightning if they used over-the-top accents), the allies quickly formed ranks to quell the mutual threat. The armies of the dwarves, elves and men took up positions along the spurs of the mountain, with Bilbo and Gandalf standing fast with the elvish contingent (for Bilbo, it seemed like the safest place). But just as the orcs and wargs with their savage shrieks and war whoops fell upon the allies' bristling armies, the door to Narrator #5's tidy study burst off its hinges with a wood splintering kick. There in the doorway stood a disheveled man panting heavily in between bouts of manic mumbling.

"May I help you?" Narrator #5 said in an unperturbed and highly unlikely manner.

"Yes," the man at the door hissed malevolently, "step away from the keyboard -- this parody is mine!"

"Fool! I shall do no such thing," Narrator #5 replied indignantly, finally recognizing Narrator #1 from the frayed remnants of the straightjacket that hung in tatters from his torso. "You had your chance at completing the story, and you failed miserably -- particularly with your pathological insistence on forcing your point of view into the narrative."

"But…it was funny!" the man sputtered angrily.

"No, it was tiresome," Narrator #5 countered, "and it detracted from the plot."

"Oh, as if a spacey ElvenKing ranting in fractured Norwegian is funny," Narrator #1 spat sarcastically. "Your entire treatment is boring!"

"And…and you are a looney," Narrator #5 replied hastily.

"O-o-o-o! that was a stellar comeback!" Narrator #1 laughed.

"Loo-ney, loo-ney!" Narrator #5 mocked. "You're nothing but a freak. Come see the stark-raving narrating freak!"

Narrator #1 growled with inchoate rage and sprang at Narrator #5, but Narrator #5 was tensed and ready, forcefully hurling his PC's wireless mouse, which smote Narrator #1 squarely in the forehead. Narrator #1 reeled from the concussive blow, but he managed to grab a throw pillow from a nearby sofa and bashed Narrator #5 with a wicked smack upside the head.

Meanwhile, things were going badly in the war. The fierce elvish spearmen, hating the orcs for their bad hygiene and egregious table manners, had won great renown with their initial foray into the orc's undisciplined lines; yet the sheer weight of orkish numbers eventually forced the elvish surge back. The dwarves wielded their mattocks with ferocious abandon, bludgeoning orc and warg with puissant power; but for all their mighty exploits, they too tired under the seemingly limitless waves of orc and their rabid assault. Bard and the men of Laketown sang Queen's 'News of the World' album in its entirety (complete with rousing renditions of 'We Will Rock You' and 'We are the Champions'), but this only infuriated the maddened orcs, who, as everyone knows, were music snobs and partial to Broadway show tunes.

"To hell with this!" Bilbo grumbled as the orcs drew nearer. He placed his magic ring on his finger and promptly disappeared (bravery is one thing, being mutilated by orcs is entirely another).

Narrator #5 had tumbled backwards over his desk from the savage throw pillow assault, but quickly regained his composure, fending off further pillow pummeling with a reading lamp he had purchased at auction in London twelve years earlier. You know the type of lamp: the kind once ubiquitous in finer municipal libraries, with a handsomely patinaed brass base and a semi-cylindrical downturned shade of green hand-blown glass. Very traditional, but functional and stylish in a modern application all the same. Nevertheless, Narrator #4 ignored the sentimental value he placed on the lamp and wielded it manfully, and struck a glancing blow to Narrator #1's jaw. Narrator #1 staggered for a moment, but shrugged off the effects of the hit, countering with a vicious backhand strike using 'Roget's International Thesaurus, 6th Edition' (which Narrator #5 had recently received as a birthday gift). Narrator #5 reflected on the power of words and their sometimes-hurtful usage as the book struck him.

Elsewhere, the now transparent Bilbo watched in growing dismay as the allies slowly yielded ground to the orkish attack. The ElvenKing angrily shouted out orders that none of the elves understood, and Gandalf stood beside him, grim but resolute, seemingly preparing for one last cataclysmic blast of magic before the end; either that, or he was attempting to summon up his agent to fire him. Suddenly, a sputtered note from an off-key bugle echoed from within the Gates of Erebor, and Thorin and his companions roared forth from their mountain sanctuary.

Thorin, resplendent in gleaming mithril mail and a fearsome dragon helm, wielded a great battle-axe over his head and bellowed above the fray, "To me, O valiant dwarves and elves, to me!"

Just then, a glorious beam of sunlight rent the glowering clouds and shone full and bright on an improbable sight in the valley below.

"What, is it the eagles again?" Bilbo muttered, remembering that Tolkien's favorite deus ex machina was indeed the great eagles, who flew to the rescue numerous times in both the Silmarillion and Lord of the Rings, as well as in the hobbit's own sordid saga.

But straining his eyes for a better glimpse of the miraculous event, Bilbo could ascertain, even from such a great distance, that it was not eagles. "What, then, is that mighty Beorn in the monstrous visage of a great bear?" Yet even as Bilbo mouthed the words, he could plainly see that it was not Beorn.

With the stunning clarity afforded by the use of the magic ring, Bilbo gasped with growing surprise (and incredulity) as the vision became clear: it was jolly Tom Bombadil in his bright boots of yellow, merrily singing and dancing with oblivious unconcern hither and thither about the battlefield. With him, in long, foliated lines that resembled a vast marching orchard, were the blooming entwives, who, as the old tales maintain, had supposedly been missing for ages. And, like most women scorned by wayward husbands, boy, were they pissed! Orcs and wargs were crushed or sent flying like paper dolls as the horticultural harridans hewed their way through the crumbling enemy rear guard.

Bilbo was about to cry out in joy (or consternation, the chronicles are unclear on this point), when a boulder loosed from higher up the mount struck him full on his helmet. "Can this story get any sillier?" Bilbo thought as he slipped into unconsciousness, "A bit more, it seems," he murmured, and then surrendered to oblivion.


	26. Chapter 26

**Chapter 26: The Obligatory Novel Dénouement (Complete With Tragic Death Scene, Ritualistic Cannibalism and Post-Mortem Tea)**

Bilbo rose groggily from the ground in the battle's aftermath (as did Narrator #5). The hobbit gingerly removed his dented helmet and noted that it more than likely did not meet occupational safety regulations (Narrator #5 spat out some cellulose stuffing from a ripped throw pillow). Bilbo managed to stand up and was amazed to see the mangled bodies of dead orcs strewn all about him (Narrator #5 found the body of Narrator #1 buried under the 59 volume Modern Library Classic Literature compilation, which had evidently been jarred off a shelf on the wall and had come crashing down during the confrontation). The hobbit espied dwarves knocking down a wall that enclosed the entrance to Erebor, and elves tending to their wounded in the valley below; obviously, the allies had won a great victory (Narrator #5 reflected on the important, and sometimes dangerous, nature that literature still plays in society today). Bilbo wondered what had happened to his friends, Gandalf and Thorin, as well as the rest of his dwarvish companions (Narrator #5 prepared Narrator #1's body for consumption).

"Would you please stop with the parenthetical asides!" Bilbo shouted in exasperation. Then with the arcane perception afforded to the hobbit by the use of the magic ring, and thus having the ability to perceive both the seen and unseen, Bilbo gasped in sudden shock. "Wait! You…you are not Narrator #5…you are Narrator #1!"

"Shhhhh!" Narrator #1 shushed with a finger to his lip. "I am hunting wabbits!" Then the Narrator giggled wildly and stuck out his tongue.

Bilbo rolled his eyes. "Look, this story has gone on long enough," he said firmly. "There'll be no more eating of narrators until you've finished the narrative."

Narrator #1 frowned impetuously like a child deprived of ice cream. "Well, I suppose I could just remove the organs and salt down the body…for later."

"No, there will be no salting of bodies," Bilbo replied with finality. "Finish the story."

Narrator #1 sighed resignedly and sent a soldier in search of Bilbo. "Hullo, I am here!" Bilbo cried out to the man, who looked about dumbfounded, as he had heard Bilbo's voice but could not see him.

Bilbo quickly removed his magic ring and became visible to the soldier. The man, for his part, seemed barely surprised at the hobbit's sudden appearance. "Damned mythical creatures," he spat in disgust, "I hate living in the 3rd Age."

Bilbo was led to the ElvenKing's camp where he found Gandalf, who was delighted to see him.

"Bilbo, I am delighted to see you!" the old wizard said…delightedly.

Funny thing about the word 'delight', to define the word strictly by its component syllables, the prefix 'de-' indicates a removal or separation, as in 'de-bone' or 'de-tach; therefore, 'de-light' would indicate a removal of light, and is therefore incongruous to its definition of being gratified or extremely happy…

"Oh, would you please shut up!" Gandalf snapped.

Bilbo, having had quite enough of the wayward narration already, merely ignored it and said to Gandalf, "Where are Thorin and the dwarves? Do you think Thorin is still mad at me for stealing the Arkenstone?"

Gandalf's face became grim and he shook his head sadly. Without a word, he led Bilbo to a large tent in the center of camp. In the tent stood the ElvenKing, Bard and various grief-stricken dwarves, and there on a stretcher lay Thorin, wounded with many wounds, his armor rent and his axe notched. The dying dwarf's eyes fluttered open and he gazed up tenderly at the tearful hobbit. His lips moved, but he could not utter a word. Thorin wheezed and then with a great effort he motioned Bilbo closer.

Bilbo looked over to Gandalf and said mournfully, "Dear Thorin, he probably wants to thank me for stopping the war between the dwarves and elves."

Bilbo reverently and very gently laid his ear near Thorin's lips. Thorin gasped again wearily and then suddenly grabbed the hobbit by the throat. "Where is my jewel? Where is my jewel?" the dwarf growled as he throttled Bilbo.

"I...have...it...here! I...have...it...here!" Bilbo rasped in fright as Thorin choked him. He quickly pulled the Arkenstone from his pocket and dropped it on Thorin's chest.

Thorin let go of Bilbo and cradled the Arkenstone to his bosom.

"Greedy bastard!" Bilbo coughed as he rubbed his throat.

"Now, now Bilbo…" Gandalf said, attempting to be conciliatory.

"Now, now -- nothing!" Bilbo shot back. "All through this silly quest I've had to save the dwarves' sorry arses – and this is the thanks I get?"

"Bilbo…dear Bilbo," Thorin whispered, "you are right. We owe you a debt of gratitude. I…I am sorry."

Bilbo softened his stance a bit. "That's more bloody like it," he said indignantly as he straightened his collar.

"Farewell, good thief," Thorin said, "I go now to the halls of my fathers, but before I leave I wish to part with you in friendship."

"Well…of course," Bilbo mumbled glumly, feeling rather bad for his unseemly outburst. "Yes, Thorin, I shall always cherish our friendship."

"Farewell then, dear Bilbo," Thorin sighed and he breathed his last.

"Farewell, King under the Mountain!" Bilbo cried. "How sad that our adventure should end thus!"

After a few moments, Thorin's eyes opened again and he wheezed, "Bilbo I am dying…"

"Well…yes," Bilbo replied.

"I leave now all my gold and silver, and my kingship I give to Dain of the Iron Hills…"

"Look, shouldn't you have written a will or something?" Bilbo said uneasily.

"It is finished…" Thorin heaved with his last death rattle.

"Farewell, King under the Mountain!" Bilbo said again.

Gandalf was just about to lay a cloak over the DwarfKing's peaceful face, when Thorin opened his eyes and spoke again, "Bilbo, there is good in you, O child of the kindly West. I see wisdom and bravery…and…" but Thorin could no long utter the words. His eyes rolled to the back of his head and he gasped and breathed no more.

The various dignitaries in attendance looked uneasily at one another and then at Thorin's lifeless body. After several moments, Gandalf again attempted to lay a cloak over Thorin's head, but the DwarfKing opened his eyes once again.

" 'Ee aint dead yet," Bombur said.

"P'raps he's only half-dead," Dwalin added hopefully.

"Nein, nein, seely comic relief-type dörf," the ElvenKing retorted, "yer eider mit der livink, or yer schtöne dæd und puschin' up der lilies -- kicked der cån, boughten der bårn, cåsched in der schippes, und udder zuch euphemisms fer vyrm food."

"Well, maybe he is dead, but not mortally so," Dwalin replied without understanding a single word the elf said.

"Bilbo," Thorin wheezed, "if more us esteemed food and drink above battles and gold, Middle-earth would be a better place."

"Well, I am getting quite hungry," Bilbo replied. "Can we get this over with so I can get a bite to eat?" Gandalf elbowed the hobbit to stop his impertinence.

"Farewell, dear Bilbo!" Thorin cried.

"Yes, yes – farewell, farewell," Bilbo answered, trying to sound enthused.

Thorin's head fell back against the pillow and his eyes closed. After several more minutes, Gandalf finally managed to place the cloak over the DwarfKing's head. Sobs of grief came from the dwarves, and all who stood round sadly bowed their heads. Suddenly, Thorin's head shot up again beneath the cloak and he began repeating various farewells.

"Oh, good Lord," Bilbo groaned.

Dåt dere dörf keeng's göt more lives den dem cåts on der höt tin roov," the ElvenKing sighed in mixed metaphor.

"I've had quite enough of this silliness!" Gandalf muttered irritably and left the tent, followed quickly by the rest of the mourners. Outside the tent, Bilbo could still hear Thorin's muffled death soliloquy, but his attention was diverted by a rather buxom and blubbery camp-follower from Laketown named Big Bertha stirring a pot of stew for several soldiers. The soldiers were all starving, of course, but Big Bertha would not dole out the stew until she was sure it was cooked to her liking. Without warning, she began bellowing a bawdy ballad, and the smiling soldiers all held out their bowls in anticipation.

One of the new recruits said, " 'Ow didja know Big Bertha were done cookin' the stew?"

"Well, t'aint over 'til ther fat lady sings!" one of the soldiers laughed and gave Bertha a good whack on the bottom.

Coincidentally, at that precise moment, Thorin had stopped muttering farewells and a profound silence pervaded the tent. Bilbo merely shrugged and went about the camp looking for some dinner of his own. As luck would have it, the hobbit found an elven cook serving his mates (he had grown partial to elvish food whilst prowling about Thranduil's pantry), but just as he has sat down to eat, to his surprise, Bilbo saw the dwarf, Dumplin, walking hand in hand with a very tall elf. The Elf's plaited platinum hair glimmered in the noonday sun, and Bilbo could not help but admire the handsome elf's almost feminine beauty. Dumplin's broad beaming smile was plain to see beneath his…her beribboned beard as the couple eyed each other dreamily.

"It's Legolas," Dumplin whispered gleefully as they neared Bilbo, "he…she has returned!"

"Good luck then…to you…two," Bilbo said uncomfortably as he watched the legendary lovers pass into Mary-Sue history.

After a hearty meal and a pleasant cup of tea, Bilbo met up with Gandalf, who at the present was in a very muddled conversation with Tom Bombadil.

"…and you called forth the entwives from their seclusion and then came to our rescue just in the nick of time?" Gandalf said in a half-questioning statement.

"Me? No, nay, never," Bombadil replied. He then began to hop about on one yellow boot and sing:

"To the entwives my jolly aid was lent,  
In searching all our time was spent --  
Behind tree and stone our thoughts were bent,  
Looking for them wayward ents."

"So…" Gandalf drawled in growing exasperation, "…you just happened to come upon the battlefield by accident?"

"Was there a battle? That's news to me,  
I thought it was a jamboree --  
Orcs and elves were dancing, so  
I merrily joined the two and fro!"

Still on one foot, Tom began doing pirouettes until Bilbo was dizzy.

"But you had to notice they were killing each other!" Gandalf said with surprise. "Are you that oblivious?"

"Obliviously not," Tom said with a wink,  
"I notice much more than you think!  
I saw the blood as I was prancing,  
I thought, p'raps they were just slam-dancing!"

"Oh, bloody hell!" Gandalf groaned in defeat. "Well, fare-thee-well, Master Bombadil. Will you be returning to Goldberry in the Old Forest soon?"

"Goldberry, Goldberry, that nasty wench --  
The very thought of her makes my fists clench!  
She's up and left me, to my despair –  
And shacked up with ol' Beorn the bear!"

"Oh, how sad," Bilbo said sympathetically. "What shall you do now?"

But Bombadil, as carefree as ever, skipped off with a wave through the meadow still singing:

"There is a bonny young maid in Rivendell,  
Whose pale bosoms like flowers swell.  
Beautiful Arwen in my dreams doth flit,  
As I watch her bouncing pair of…"

"Bombadil!" Gandalf shouted as Tom pranced off. "That'll be quite enough of that!"

"No wonder why he was edited out of the Lord of the Rings movie," Bilbo added.


	27. Chapter 27

**Chapter 27: The End**

Hmmm…that is far too short and to the point. It is not very witty or literate at all, is it? How about…

**Chapter 27: There and Back Again**

No -- a direct lift -- it'll never get past the lawyers. Of course, Tolkien's last chapter heading 'The Final Journey' was pretty dull and to the point as well. In any case, it's not as if anything interesting will happen in this chapter. Let's pep it up a bit, shall we?

**Chapter 27: The Stunning Anti-Climax**

That's a bit better, but it needs more panache. What would you say to…

**Chapter 27: An Anti-Climax So Shocking and Depraved, It Shall Have the Reviewers Wetting Their Drawers and Cringing in a Fetal Position under Their Computer Desks **

Bilbo was bored stiff. He had had quite enough of dwarves and wizards and elves. He wished to have breakfast fresh from his own larder and, secure in the confines of his own cozy hobbit-hole, fart in the comfort of his favorite leather club chair with no one watching. The hobbit giggled but then pursed his lips in consternation (or constipation, depending on which end one is referring to). For it seemed the legal wrangling that followed Thorin's death and the proposed kingship of Bard as Lord of Dale would keep Gandalf, in his position as mediator, at Erebor indefinitely. This, of course, meant that Bilbo would have no guide home, and he would be stuck listening to interminable parleys, proposals, pleadings and protestations for the rest of his natural life.

Plucking up his courage, and feeling quite un-Tookish – the Bagginsish sensibility having long returned to conquer his hobbitish duality – Bilbo strode purposefully up to Gandalf and said, "My dear Gandalf, I wish to fart!"

"I beg your pardon?" Gandalf said with raised brows, lifting his staff to ward of an expected assault.

"I mean…I wish to leave…now!" Bilbo said in a fit of pique. But as soon as he realized to whom he was speaking, he began to equivocate: "What I mean to say is, leave as soon as practicably possible. Sooner than later, in any case. Whenever you, in your wizardly wisdom, think it best."

"Dear Bilbo," Gandalf said laughing, "I was waiting for you, as it seemed you were having difficulty saying farewell to your companions. We can depart anytime you wish."

"But I thought you were mediating – that the dwarves and men needed your counsel," Bilbo replied, quite flummoxed.

"On the contrary, I've been spending most of my time throwing my voice like I did amongst the trolls in chapter five. The ensuing arguments and misunderstandings have been hilarious."

"Oh…well then…shall we get going?"

And going they did get…What the...? Oh…bollocks…

Pardon the interruption, Police Inspector R.G. Bargie here. I am sorry for the abrupt manner in which this parody has ended, but Narrator #1 has once again been apprehended and tried for his crimes. Therefore, as all the Narrators have been either incarcerated (the first), are in hiding (the second), have been consumed by a dragon (number four) or eaten by a fellow narrator (numbers three and five), there is no one left to finish the story.

As for the infamous Narrator #1, he has been found guilty of perpetrating numerous abominable acts in a grossly farcical retelling of 'The Hobbit'; but since the sentence for cannibalism in Britain is merely life imprisonment (with time off for good behavior and conjugal visits from a cellmate named Bubba), the magistrate in this case, the Honorable Judge Congreve Pecksniffian-Smegma, wished for a stricter penalty than the current rule of law would accomodate. Therefore, he had Narrator # 1 tried under international copyright and trademark infringement laws, and he was promptly executed. In future, to assure that no further such inane parodies of Tolkien's work would be made, Narrator #2 was enticed out of hiding with promises of being placed in the National Narrator's Protection Program. However, since there is no such thing as the National Narrator's Protection Program, he was duly handed over to Iranian authorities -- we having informed the Iranians that Narrator #2 was, in fact, Salman Rushdie (who, as you all know is under an Islamic fatwā for blaspheming against the Koran). Needless to say, Narrator #2 was also promptly executed. I believe the method was by stoning, but he could well have been forced to listen to one of Mahmoud Ahmadinejad's speeches – in either case, lethal.

But what of Bilbo, the little hobbit with a bit of pluck and a good deal of luck? Did he ever make it home? If I may put forth a bit of personal trivia, when I am not on duty protecting society from thieves, rapists, check-kiters, confidence men, cutpurses, jackanapes, mountebanks and diabolical cannibalistic narrators, and when I am not under obligation to the missus for any household chores, various social events, strained dinners with idiot in-laws and, of course, the rigidly scheduled, once-a-month, do-it-even-if-one-doesn't-want-to, missionary style, after brushing one's teeth, lights out marital obligation, I dream – usually in the middle of the night, by this time – of another life, far away from suburbia, midsized, sensible sedans, shopping malls, and fondling my drunken next-door neighbor behind the garage during a summer block party. Strike that last one, please; I wasn't actually fondling him, really. It was more a manly embrace among friends. I have not always wanted to be a police inspector, with the interminable stakeouts, paperwork, bookings, mug shots and donut shops. No, I've always wanted to be…a fan-fiction writer! Living in a sweltering third-floor garret like Rimbaud or Baudelaire, hunched over a PC in a dimly-lit study with a swivel office chair that tips precariously forward because the height adjustment mechanism is broken, cigarette butts piled profusely in a broken ceramic ashtray, with my drunken next-door neighbor, Bertie, by my side, we would sing, sing, sing:

_Fan-fiction writer --_

(A chorus of police constables echo '_Fan-fiction writer…writer…writer'_)

_Dear sir or madam will you read my tale?  
I could forward it to you via e-mail!  
It's adapted from a story that was based on a film,  
And I hate my job so I want to be a fan-fiction writer --  
Fan-fiction writer!_

Constabulary Chorus in three part harmony: _Fan-fiction writer…writer…writer_

_It's a thousand pages, give or take a few,  
It's not a slasher or a Mary-Sue.  
I've done my research for canonicity,  
But I can up the romance 'cause I want to be a fan-fiction writer --  
Fan-fiction writer!_

Constabulary Chorus in three part harmony: _Fan-fiction writer…writer…writer_

_It's an epic story of a tragic elf,  
Who killed his brother and can't live with himself,  
He quests in the tenth spot of the Fellowship,  
Which features Aragorn and I want to be a fan-fiction writer --  
Fan-fiction writer!_

Constabulary Chorus in three part harmony: _Fan-fiction writer…writer…writer_

_If you really like it, perhaps you'll nominate  
Me for a MeFA, that would just be great.  
You can't really sell it due to copyrights,  
It's a futile job, but I want to be a Fan-fiction writer --  
Fan-fiction writer…_

"Enough! enough of that damned singing!" Gandalf bellowed in exasperation. "All of you, out – get going! We'll have no more of this nonsense!"

As the disappointed chorus line of police constables (and the drunken next-door neighbor, Bertie) filed out of the decrepit lower eastside garret, Police Inspector R.G. Bargie sat alone and disconsolate, his burgeoning literary dreams crushed by the musical prejudices of a fictional character in classical fantasy book.

"Oh, come now, it's not as bad as all that," Bilbo said cheerfully. "After all, you can still bring the parody to a rousing finish."

The sniveling Police Inspector righted himself in the precarious swivel chair and cracked his knuckles (a nervous affectation he had cultured since primary school). With a cigarette hanging in a jaunty Hemingway-esque angle from his lips and his fingers perched lightly over the keyboard, the erstwhile Police Inspector began typing – typing for the mere satisfaction of making words and phrases appear on the twenty-two inch, full HD flat-panel monitor with webcam glowing softly in LCD luminescence before him.

But, just as he was to fulfill his lifelong literary ambition, at the very point of reaching the acme and apex of his writing career, he halted abruptly in mid-sentence. For no one expected…AN INFURIATING AND UNPROPITIOUS CASE OF WRITER'S BLOCK! All he could manage to type was…

THE END.

"Well, 'at's it then," Gloin said in his usual efficient manner. "As Union Steward for the Dwarves With Limited Speaking Roles, I should loike to thank one 'n' all for laborin' through this here labyrinthine maze of a parody."

"Well, it's back to dwarf bowling at county fairs," Balin sighed resignedly.

"I 'ate carnies," Bombur hissed, "small 'ands, smell of cabbage."

"Perhaps if we built a bridge," Dwalin countered hopefully.


	28. Chapter 28

**The 'Just when you thought it was safe to read Tolkien again' **

**Menopausal Kamikaze Llama Epilogue (and invasive post-mortem)**

Llamas, although not known to be carnivorous, do indeed have bloody dreams of devouring chunks of raw, red meat. That is why it is never suggested that one wake a sleeping llama, particularly if said llama is a middle-aged female at the outset of her cria-bearing (cria being a llamalette, if you will) years, whose lusty husband left her for a cute little alpaca in Rio de Janeiro. So, while Mr. Llama cavorts about Mardi Gras in his Jaguar with that wanton slut of a wooly camelid, Mrs. Llama plots her revenge.

*****WARNING: DISTURBING SCENES OF LLAMA VIOLENCE NOT TO BE CONFUSED WITH THE SEASICK LLAMA AND THE DRUNKEN PORTUGESE SAILORS FOUND IN CHAPTER THREE. FOR THE SAKE OF THE LLAMALETTES, WE SHALL FOREGO THE MAYHEM AND MUTILATION AND OFFER IT TO YOU LATER IN AN EXTENDED BLUE-RAY DVD SET…AND NOW, BACK TO OUR STORY, 'The Huánuco', WRITTEN BY JRR TOLKIELLAMA, AUTHOR OF 'The Sillamarillion' AND 'The Llama of the Rings'*****

With a great sense of relief, Bilbo Baggins found himself at last on the stoop of his beloved hobbit hole at Bag End. Reaching for the bright brass knob of his round, green door, Bilbo was disturbed to find that it was locked (locks, of course, not having been invented until John Locke's discourse on 'tabula rasa' in the 17th century). With a good deal of indignance, the hobbit banged on the door. After a lengthy silence, Bilbo could hear the flap-flap-flap of bare feet on a stone floor.

"'Ooo is it?" a rather perturbed voice came from beyond the door.

"Let me in!" Bilbo cried.

"The estate sale aint startin' 'til noon," the voice replied, "coom back then!"

"Estate sale?" Bilbo muttered, suddenly noticing the boldly painted sign that detailed the particulars of the event:

ESTATE SALE FOR THE BELONGINGS OF BILBO BAGGINS, DECEASED  
12:00 Noon, Saturday, Promptly  
Presented by Messrs. Grubb, Grubb & Grubb, Auctioneers Extraordinaire  
Partial Listing of Items –  
Leather Club Chair (fumigated)  
Incomplete Sets of Glasses (chipped) and Plates (cracked)  
One Llama (stuffed)  
Diaries, Manuscripts and Letters of B. Baggins (great for lining birdcages)  
Several Casks of Dorwinion Wine…

Bilbo's ire grew as he read the listing of all his personal effects. Banging on the door once again, the hobbit yelled, "Open up – open up this instant! It is I, Bilbo Baggins!"

There was an angry grunt from behind the door, and it opened a crack. A pair of bloodshot eyes peered out of the shadows. "Bilbo Baggins is dead! Bleedin' demised, he is! Now go 'way!"

"Nonsense!" Bilbo growled. "I am not dead, demised, or deceased. Now, open up and let me in!"

"Not by the 'air of my chinny-chin-chin," replied the old hobbit hag, who did indeed have several stiff grey hairs jutting out from a bulbous brown wart on her chin.

"Lobelia Sackville-Baggins!" Bilbo cried in recognition. "I should have known. Look here, this is my hobbit hole and I demand you let me enter this instant!"

"You…demand?" Lobelia spat as she looked the hobbit up and down with a great deal of distaste. "You aint Bilbo Baggins – 'ee's dead. 'Ee was eaten by dwarves last Spring."

"I…I am Bilbo Baggins and I did not get eaten by dwarves," Bilbo replied angrily. "Look, I am your cousin, surely you recognize me?"

Lobelia looked Bilbo up and down once more, and said flatly, "No…no, you aint Baggins. Bilbo 'ad a wooly hide, a long neck, banana-shaped ears and walked on all fours -- but 'ee didn't 'ave a dorsal hump loike them other camel species."

"But, you've just described a llama," Bilbo hissed. "I am not a llama, I am Bilbo Baggins."

"We'll just see about that!" Lobelia growled and cried out, "Otho! O-T-H-O!"

There was the sound of rustling paper and a grunt from further down the hall, then the padding flap-flap-flap sound of bare feet on stone. A distinguished Hobbit suddenly appeared at the door. He was wearing a green velvet smoking jacket and had a red fez angled jauntily on his round head. Clearly agitated, he puffed on his clay meerschaum with great gouts of smoke rising at intervals like a steam engine. "See here, Lobelia, what's all this caterwauling about?" the gentle-hobbit barked. "You've gone and interrupted my tea once again!"

"Your blinkin' tea be damned!" Lobelia shot back, "this blighter is demandin' to enter, says 'ee's Bilbo Baggins!"

"Preposterous!" Otho huffed as he puffed, "Baggins is dead -- eaten by dwarves last spring, he was."

"Oh, for the love of...Otho, I am not dead," Bilbo said between clenched teeth. "I was not eaten by dwarves and I am not a llama."

"Well, anyone in their right mind can see you look nothing like a llama," Otho replied peevishly, "even though you lack a dorsal hump. But that merely proves you cannot be Bilbo Baggins, as he clearly resembled a llama."

"Or p'raps a vicuña or alpaca – there a might bit smaller than llamas," Lobelia said thoughtfully.

"Yes, Lobelia dear, I do believe you are right," Otho said with a warm, husbandly smile.

"Look, there are no llamas in Middle-earth, so this entire discussion is ridiculous!" Bilbo shouted.

"Pffft!" Otho snorted. "Just because Tolkien didn't mention llamas does not mean they do not exist in Middle-earth."

" 'Ee ne'er mentioned bowel-movements either," Lobelia retorted, "but 'at don't mean I 'aven't shook loose an 'ealthy one ev'ry now 'n' again."

The thought of Lobelia shaking loose a healthy one made Bilbo cringe. "This is getting us nowhere," he finally sighed. "I'll just have to seek a legal remedy for this situation, and have you forcibly removed!"

"I'll 'ave to seek a legal remedy for this 'ere situation, blah-blah-blah," Lobelia mocked. "Get off me stoop, ye bleedin' fraud, a'fore I sic the Bounders on ye!"

"You, sir, are an impostor! There are laws against impostoring, I'll have you know!" Otho added indignantly and, without further ado, the indignant couple slammed the quaint round green door in Bilbo's flushed face.

Dejectedly, the defeated hobbit walked slowly down the rustic slate path that led from Bag End down the hill passed Bagshot Row to the gravel road below. To his surprise, Bilbo saw a friendly face coming up the path. "Bawdy…Bawdy Brandybuck!" Bilbo cried with relief on seeing the comely hobbit-maid. "Oh, it's good to see you! It's Bilbo, I've finally returned from my quest."

"Oh…Bilbo…hello," Bawdy said hesitantly in obvious embarrassment. "You've…you've been gone for so long."

"Well, I am back," Bilbo replied happily. "I've dreamed of seeing the 'winsome, sultry face' you would be doing for the flashback sequences. It kept me going on the long, hard road."

But Bawdy gave her 'forlorn, teary-eyed face', which was not seemingly appropriate for a script that included her as the hobbit's 'contractually obligatory Hollywood love-interest'. "Oh, Bilbo," Bawdy repeated, "you've been gone for so long."

"Yes, you've already said that," Bilbo said in annoyance. It was then that Baggins noticed the decided bulge of Bawdy's burgeoning belly. "Bawdy…you…you're pregnant?"

"Yes…yes, I am," Bawdy answered with a tinge of sadness. "And…I am married now."

"Married! to whom?" Bilbo growled in growing fury.

"To Hamfast Gamgee – you know, the good old Gaffer."

"You got knocked up…by the Gaffer?"

"Oh yes," Bawdy answered with surprising zeal, "he can really handle a hoe -- in a gardening sense, you know."

"But…"

"If it's a boy, we shall name him Samwise. Aren't you excited for us?"

"Bleedin' delighted," Bilbo grumbled.

"And we should like to have you as Sam's godfather, seeing as you're the Gaffer's employer and all," Bawdy gushed, totally oblivious of Bilbo's perplexed frown.

"Yes…certainly…Samwise…hoes," Bilbo mumbled distractedly. "Well, I really must be going, Bawdy, take care," he added as he started down the path once more.

"It was wonderful seeing you again, dear Bilbo," Bawdy said, waving. "Oh, and Bilbo…"

Bilbo turned and Bawdy continued, "After the baby arrives…come up and see me…you know, for old time's sake." She winked and Bilbo opened his mouth to speak, but he merely shrugged and shuffled sadly onward.

And so, the maddeningly meandering parody lists to its foundering conclusion with nary a hint of joy or hope for the downtrodden hobbit. What, did you expect a happy ending? Pffft! Look, it's not like this is a fairy tale, particularly in this post-modern, angst-ridden, psychology-driven literary era. It's a wonder Tolkien got published at all. Now sod off, there aint nothin' more to see 'ere.


End file.
